To Ride Upon Svadilfari
by Evil Is A Relative Term
Summary: For two wizards thrown out of their own world and into another Earth populated by superheroes and gods, it looks to be a treacherous ride as they attempt to return home again. But when has the impossible ever stopped Hermione Granger and Harry Potter?
1. Insouciance At The Chandrasekhar Limit

Disclaimer: I reserve no rights to anything except perhaps the plot.

A/N: As a brief synopsis of how this will operate, the Earth of _Harry Potter _and _The Avengers _are not the same Earth-they vibrate at different frequencies, exist on different strings, not quite parallel to each other. Superheroes do not exist on the Earth of _Harry Potter; _there are no wizards in the world of _The Avengers_, or at the very least, not on Midgard_. _There are no Nine Realms in _Harry _Potter-most of the pagan gods are suspected or known to be ancient wizards manipulating Muggles for their own purposes. The theory I would put forward to explain this lack of other realm is that rather than expanding outward into multiple realms, all realms and all the life they would have supported was compressed into a single realm, thereby giving a plausible theory to the rich diversity of magical species and intelligent life on par with that of humans that makes their home on Potterverse Earth.

At some point in their societal development, wizards voluntarily arrested the development of their magic, effectively hamstringing themselves. After all, this was before the advent of nuclear weapons, so wizards could have potentially subdued the rest of humanity but did not. In view of this, magic will be treated slightly differently from what it is in the novels, to meld more seamlessly into the other world, because I am viewing this is a superhero fic rather than magical realism. Be prepared for characters who are accordingly outside the normal mode, power-wise, but if people can still seriously write Superman fiction, then I think I might be able to manage to sufficiently challenge two over-powered wizards.

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter One-

Insouciance At The Chandrasekhar Limit

Hermione had once lived in a world in which magic dwelled only in books, but from the moment she first stepped foot onto Hogwarts' worn flagstones it had become an integral part of her life. It wasn't a tool, to be picked up and put down as she liked; it was a limb, a sense, an extension of herself. Magic was the act of exerting one's will over reality-great wizards lacked logic because magic _defied _it. The law of conservation of matter would have become a jest if wizards had learned of it. Power and will trumped physics. Space was folded by schoolchildren, masters of their art could conjure and fix objects from nothing, objects could be Banished and retrieved from thin air by housewitches doing their weekly shopping.

But like all wonder, one becomes numb to it through long exposure. Hermione no longer found it odd, strange, or even remarkable that she could store in her handbag a library, the equipment and ingredients for a basic potions laboratory, and whatever else lingering paranoia from the war might cause her to keep at hand. As well as all her money-Gringotts' had banned her from their halls for the next fifty years, even if her act of theft had saved them from being enslaved by a Dark Lord.

She had stood on battlefields of some kind or another since she was eleven years old; the official end of the war did nothing to change that. Hermione had entered the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures only briefly before she transferred to the department of Magical Law Enforcement. Harry had prevailed over her good sense and seen her in the ranks of the Aurors before first she, then Harry, was pulled to a permanent position on a Hit Wizard squad that was part of an international cooperative that allowed them to hunt dark wizards that had originated in the United Kingdom throughout most of the world. Local Ministries or the equivalent provided basic support services, such as Obliviation of Muggles, which was a courtesy returned when their operatives were in the U.K.

None of their targets was as dangerous-or as near-immortal-as Voldemort, but sometimes Hermione suspected that if they had received the training and conditioning they received as Hit Wizards, it would have made the war a far different experience. Indeed, she sometimes wondered about the spectacular inefficiency of the Ministry during that period, which had allowed the outcome of a war that had begun to spread beyond the borders of their island to rest in the hands of schoolchildren.

Admittedly, Hermione had been cleverer and better-read on Horcruxes at seventeen than most M.L.E. officers going into retirement and Harry as stalwart and self-sacrificing as the hero of a _chanson de geste_, but he was just as hot-tempered and near-sighted then as one of those doomed men and she had been just one girl, fumbling to assume the role that Dumbledore had failed to groom her properly for. Wielding the boy-weapon that he had raised, with tenderness and cruel inaction by turns, for over seventeen years.

Hermione could not and would never condone what he had done, but she understood his actions. She, too, had a certain innate practicality, a deeply ruthless streak that was willing to compromise the morals she drilled into others if it achieved her ends. They were of the same cloth, he and she, masterminds, field marshalls, rational to the core-but Harry was to her, of a kind, what Grindelwald had been to Dumbledore.

Being forced to turn his wand against the man with whom he'd once shared a vision for the future of their very world had broken something in Dumbledore; Hermione still possessed it, that indefinable quality that reminded her that the world was not an immensely complex chess set and people's lives were not some long game. Harry was her dearest friend, a brother in all but blood, and for him-to protect him from himself and others-she would move heaven and earth, but she never forgot that other people were as real as he was, that they had their own motives, desires, and realities.

She was only twenty-nine years old, but she had fought dark wizards across Europe and Australia, seen, cast, and combated magic that the general Wizarding populace wasn't aware existed, and she was joint Secret Keeper to the three Deathly Hallows, holder of one of them though it still it obeyed Harry far more willingly than she. Of her generation, she was the most powerful witch; her estimated lifespan was measured in centuries so long as her magic remained strong and vital. But while the extended lifespan might seen remarkable to a Muggleborn, purebloods accepted it as a matter-of-course. Molly Weasley had relatives on her mother's side nearing two hundred and no one seemed to do more than complain that it might be another ten years or more before they saw the first glimmer of an inheritance. Only Harry himself would outlive her, if he managed to make it safely to retirement.

That possibility looked ever more unlikely at the moment.

"Dragons," Harry hissed beneath his breath. "Of course there would be dragons."

Hermione frowned tightly but didn't respond to his statement, her concentration focused on analyzing their potential route of entry into the subterranean hoard of banned magical artifacts, which at that moment was also playing host to their target.

They were nearer to Muggle habitation than she was comfortable with, for their target had somehow induced Hungarian Horntails to guard his trove. Two females, half-grown, and the largest male of their species she'd ever seen, almost as big as a female.

"Hermione," Harry murmured. "What's the plan?"

"For now," she said irritably, "it's not to get incinerated. Be quiet a moment, Harry."

Harry rolled his eyes, but some of the restlessness eased from his posture. They had made the mistake of Apparating in almost on top of the nest earlier this morning, but while they might have been able to use short-distance Apparation to out-maneuver a single dragon, three dragons equaled some seventeen points of potential attack at a minimum, presuming they didn't simply try to crush them.

They were observing from a distance, using the Omnioculars Harry had purchased for them at the 1994 Quidditch World Cup, but at the moment no brilliant plan was presenting itself. The dampness in the air was solidifying into a steady, irritating drizzle. With a muttered spell, Hermione warded the rain from her clothing, skin, and hair. Out of habit, she did the same for Harry. "We could starve him out," she muttered.

Harry scoffed quietly. "Have you seen the list of they _think _he's got in that vault? Three dragons, one dark wizard, and a whole host of nasty magical artifacts at his disposal. If we drive him into a corner where he thinks there's no escape, his desperation will work against us."

Hermione hummed thoughtfully. "Three Hungarian Horntails. How in the world did he raise them without someone noticing?"

"The same way dark wizards raise basilisks and cockatrices. Very carefully."

"Funny," Hermione remarked dryly. "When you have something to contribute to this conversation, please, speak again."

"And why would I do that?"

"Technically, you're team leader. You ought to be good for something."

"Given that I'm usually given marching orders by you as to where I'm leading and what I should be doing when I get to where I should be leading us to, I think my primary function is decorative."

Hermione glanced at him askance and he grinned broadly at her briefly before directing his gaze back through his Omnioculars. "More seriously though," he said a moment later, "_did _you see the list?"

"Yes, Harry, I saw the list." A list daunting in scope and length; besides being a mass-murderer, the primary was also a world-class collector and hoarder of magical objects.

"And you saw the Anvil on it?"

"Harry," she said irritably, "the Anvil of Worlds is a myth. And even if it isn't, he isn't going to choose today of all days to discover how to sunder the world-whatever that even means in practical terms-or forge monsters or what have you. It's a children's story."

"So are the _Tales of Beedle the Bard._"

Hermione went quiet for a long moment at that. "Suppose you're right, Harry. That Excalibur was sheathed not in a rock, but in the anvil it was forged upon. And that that anvil held the potential to do something extraordinarily. In this case, 'sunder worlds,' which is threatening but vague. And as for forging monsters, _Hagrid _is capable of that."

"Because all threats are more reassuring when they are _specific_," Harry quipped. "And I still shudder to this of Blast-Ended Skrewts. What would happen if someone did that intentionally? Or, well, maliciously?"

Hermione didn't even need to look over to tap him harder than perhaps necessary upside the head.

He snorted laughter as he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

"Think of it this way, Harry," she said, "If no one-not even Merlin himself-has discovered how to harness the power of the Anvil or even use it for its intended purpose, why would this wizard be any different? If I was to worry about anything on that list, I'd choose Morgan's Heart or the Mirror of Viviane. He could be watching us through the latter even now. In Tahiti, sipping a drink on a picturesque beach, rather than in that vault."

Harry scowled at the reminder of the legendary mirror, which removed one of the major barriers of Apparation, the need to be able to visualize one's destination. It was the most powerful scrying tool to have survived the Middle Ages-the goblins had been systematically destroying every artifact they could lay hands on until someone had talked to someone else and realized more than their own family heirloom had gone missing. "More than the dragons, I'm curious how he managed to collect all these artifacts without _someone _noticing. If not us, dark wizards do a pretty good job on their own of making sure nobody claims all the good toys to play with. But the Red Hands of the Morrigan? The Harp of Sweet Harm? Badb's Hood? And that's _without _mentioning the weapons. Luin of Celtchar? Dyrwyn? Fragarach? _Caladbolg_?"

"Our target is a scrawny little rat of a man. He wouldn't even be able to lift Caladbolg, let alone wield it. The same goes for the Luin of Celtchar. And you know that Dyrwyn is a sentient weapon that judges its wielder. And, honestly, Harry? Except for _maybe _Caladbolg, the Killing Curse is more dangerous to us."

"Fragarach can't be blocked either," Harry protested.

"In that case," Hermione retorted dryly, "if we see him exit his little bolt hole with a weapon in hand, _we'll _curse him before he can even think of using it. Magical weapons are antiquated."

"I'll have you know that the antiquated Sword of Gryffindor was _very _useful, thank you very much."

"Yes it was, but if it's all the same to you, Harry, I think I prefer that I not be close enough to the enemy to make use of them."

"What kind of Gryffindor are you? We lions pride ourselves on our boldness in battle," he challenged playfully.

"I'm not a lion," Hermione said, her lips twitching upwards faintly. "I'm a chimaera of sorts-the courage of a Gryffindor, the cleverness of a Slytherin, and the sheer intelligence of a Ravenclaw. I'm nigh unbeatable."

Harry snickered. "I've always thought that wings would have been a sight more useful to them than goat's horns, but I suppose dragons have the monopoly on fire-breathing flight. I notice you've left Hufflepuff out."

"I'm not quite forgiving enough to be a Hufflepuff," Hermione said, a hint of wistfulness in her voice. "I just don't have their sheer faith in people's goodness. Which is why I am here, crouched in the rain, rather than still employed in the Being Division."

Harry nudged her shoulder in a companionable manner. "I think you underestimate yourself. Or overestimate Hufflepuffs."

"And what about you?"

"Me? Nowadays I can't even imagine why the Hat even thought about sorting me into Slytherin. Playing politics is a pain in the ass and rather than 'proving myself' the way most people think of it, I think I spent more time in school proving to people that I was a real person rather than this Prophesied Savior nonsense."

"Your bitterness is showing. But you do have that essential Slytherin proclivity for slithering out of trouble at the last moment."

"So lion and snake? What's that make? A dragon?"

"Now who's flattering themselves? But, why not? Harry Potter, the Dragon of Gryffindor. It has a certain heroic sound to it."

Silence stretched between them for a long moment before Harry prodded her gently with his elbow. "It's your turn to make conversation."

"Forgive me. My well of witty banter has run dry," Hermione said with the slightest touch of asperity. "Can I admit to nostalgia for our first missions together?"

"You mean the ones where we were all grim, dour, and serious throughout the whole thing?"

"Those would be the ones."

"If we were _still _grim about the whole thing after, what, seven or eight years of doing this professionally, we'd have turned into Mad-Eye Moody by this point. Constant vigilance!"

"The fact that he's paranoid and more than a little insane doesn't mean he didn't have a point."

"Right," Harry drawled. "If Moody had a point, seventy percent of the wizarding world would be missing at least one buttock by now."

"_A _point, Harry," Hermione stressed, "not _all _points. You know, if he is watching us through the Mirror of Viviane, our inane conversation might drive him out to kill us from sheer self-preservation."

"Oh? I don't think we're quite that bad. Or was that intended as a hint for me?"

"I do occasionally appreciate some professionalism from my partners."

"I have the best record in the department. Period. Just because I'm not an asshole doesn't make me less of a professional. Though I have noticed you have a weakness for them."

"I'll tell Ron you said that," Hermione responded lightly.

"Tell Ron that and I'll tell him I know that because I've seen you eying men who aren't him. He'll throw a tantrum for weeks."

"Tell Ron that and I'll tell Ginny that you _let _that big-breasted witch we caught in Norway assault you."

"That would just be mean," Harry complained.

"You threatened to rock Ron's tiny little world. I'm just repaying the favor in kind."

Harry scowled at her. "If you mocked him any less, I wouldn't know you loved him."

"He's an overgrown child. But I do love him," Hermione acknowledged easily. "I'm just not blind to his faults."

"Is that why you refuse to have children?" Harry asked carefully.

"That would be because he is blind to _my _wants. But I can't blame him entirely for that. I never told him I didn't want children, so I assume he thought that I did."

"Can I ask why you don't want children?" Harry said after a significant pause.

"This is a little more serious than our usual mission banter."

Harry ignored the deflection. "Humor me."

"Harry, I loved my parents. And they loved me. But they were both professionals with full and busy lives of their own. Even when we all lived in the same house, we all were occupied by our own hobbies and interests. It wasn't like the Burrow, where you're always tripping over someone and living in each other's pockets. It wasn't as hard as it should have been to erase their memories and send them away."

"And you think any child you raise would feel the same way?" Harry asked skeptically.

"Well, no. But, Harry, I don't _want _to give up what I have now. I'm not prepared to make the kind of investment parenting really deserves. I love the ability to take missions as I like, to chase rare books across the continent, to scream at Ron when I'm angry. I've already come closer to immortality than most people, Harry. I've translated the _Tales_, made my reputation as an Arithmancer of unparalleled accuracy, written and enforced laws that will slowly change even the way Wizards think about other Beings. I won't be forgotten. And I want to think of that as my legacy."

"So you see ideas as something as precious as children?"

"If they're ideas that can improve our world? That can make it better, nobler, kinder? Yes, Harry. I think they're as precious as children."

"I can't pretend that I agree with that, but..."

"I answered your question, Harry."

He shifted and the sound of spelled leather moving with him helped to root Hermione in the immediacy of their current task, rather than contemplating the fact that Ron had asked Harry of all people to bring this up. _For a Gryffindor, _she thought acerbically, _you're a coward when it counts, Ronald Weasley. _Not that she was looking forward to the conversation with Ron himself, as it would doubtless result in another of the cold wars that plagued their relationship, but so long as she didn't compare it to the irritatingly blissful marriage of Harry and Ginny, she didn't feel anything like remorse having married him.

Ronald Weasley was a man of deep flaws, but also deep and redeeming strengths. He was _felt _everything more deeply than Hermione did, which meant when he loved, he invested himself in it completely. He didn't understand everything that delighted Hermione, but he tried his best to please her and make her happy, and that was all one person could really ask of another.

In return, she pretended interest in Quidditch, though the only Wizarding sport that did anything for her was Granian racing. Though she would never be comfortable flying on a broom, she had found that riding the odd Aethonan peaceful enough, though Harry, for her twenty-eighth birthday, had arranged for her to ride a retired Granian. The sensation was quite different from being mounted on a broomstick and Hermione had known, from the moment she had settled into the high-cantled saddle, that she would never forget the feeling so long as she lived.

In a few years, she'd have to surrender at least part of Harry's time, as once Ginny reached the peak of her Quidditch career, she intended to retire and devote herself to becoming the kind of mother-goddess figure that her own mother embodied. So, while Ginny was busy traveling to matches and Ron worked regular hours at the shop, Harry and she were left to their own devices when they weren't on call or on assignment.

So Hermione took riding lessons, joined in on the Auror Department's Dueling Club's weekly matches even once she was reassigned, and spent more money than was really practical on books that she'd seen in bibliographies that set her scholarly soul aflame with lust. Harry joined an amateur Quidditch league, competed as her partner in the dueling club, and volunteered at the orphanage for magical children that he'd created. Together, they had sailed in a flying bireme across the Mediterranean, engaged and been beaten in an international riddling contest, and took a course on enchanted jewels-Ginny's diamond-and-emerald wedding band might have been goblin-made, but its protection wards had been crafted by Harry's own magic.

After what Ron referred to snidely as the Starving Year, they had all made an unspoken pact of sorts, to live the fullest lives they possibly could. Because they knew all too well that darkness and want pressed in on all sides; Harry and she combated it both passively by living with joy and actively by hunting out men who mistook their magic for godhood.

They were not Aurors; they did not capture dark wizards in order to send them on to the tender mercies of Azkaban. Hit Wizards hunted only men deemed too dangerous to live even without their souls.

Today's target had killed in the name of wealth, compacting the life force of Muggles into rubies that granted a period of youth equal to the number of years the Muggles had left of their natural lifespan. Smelt had made a fortune selling those rubies to Wizards whose natural magic was weak and whose lifespan was almost Muggle-short because of that or to purebloods whose magic was powerful enough to grant them centuries but had desired continued youth well past when they should be gracefully transitioning to middle age or hoary wisdom.

He had one of the largest body counts Hermione had ever heard attributed to a single person, having preyed on the invisible-some one hundred and sixty individuals. If he had kept himself to killing Muggles, it would have been Aurors who handed him over to be Kissed, but he had recently escalated. Squib children had been vanishing, eight of them in total.

"Perhaps the usual?" Hermione asked when nothing about the situation had changed after an hour, casting a subtle warming charm as she did so. Though the warding protected her from the rain, it did little for the damp chill. She and Harry both wore variations of the standard Hit Wizard uniform, which had enough magic etched into the leather to keep her quite comfortable in the subartic or on the rim of an active volcano, but her exposed fingers and her nose were vulnerable to the weather.

Harry frowned thoughtfully. "Eventually we have to try something," he muttered.

"We could send word for the rest of the team."

"So that we can all sit around and make conversation?" he scoffed. "Unless you want to send for a team of dragon specialists, the only thing more of us will do is make more noise and create more targets. Besides, some secrets," Harry said, his voice lowering to a volume just barely auditory, "are best kept between us."

What he didn't voice aloud was the nature of their 'usual' method of attack. Gone were the days of rushing in recklessly, brandishing their wands at every shadow. They had lost too many good men and women that way, even if it continued to be official Ministry policy. Hit Wizards were given more autonomy than their Auror counterparts and most squads made use of that freedom to the point just short of official reprimand. And if Harry and Hermione's twist on that freedom was a few steps beyond even that, well, there had to be some use in being war heroes on a first-name basis with the Minister.

Some time after the end of the war and perhaps a few fairytales the wiser, Hermione had decided that leaving a relic of the power of the Resurrection Stone in a forest for man or beast to find wasn't the wisest course of action. Harry had been reluctant at first, but when she explained her fears, he'd helped her to locate the Stone. Then, one bright morning, they had brought together the three Hallows and made an Oath they would keep until their death, and if the magic proved strong enough, perhaps beyond it as well, cloaking them in the magic of Secret-Keeping. The Deathly Hallows would return to being nothing more than legend.

But for now, they were useful tools, wielded wisely and with discretion.

The normal mode of approach for them used the same method of distraction that Muggle magicians utilized to conceal their slight-of-hand. Armed with the Elder Wand and concealed beneath the Cloak, Hermione would slip close while Harry approached in the open, his powerful magic and his reputation forcing their target to keep their attention focused on him, lest the bared sword end their life before the hidden dagger had an opportunity.

Harry pressed the odd, knobbly stick-somewhat undignified to be a weapon of power-into her hand. Hermione sheathed her own wand in the holster along her left forearm. A dragon heartstring core paired with oak, it had the same smooth, finished look to it her first wand had possessed, though the curling leaves had been replaced by a knot work pattern. Sometimes, she thought she glimpsed runes interspersed in the design, but closer inspection always revealed it to be a trick of the mind.

The Elder Wand thrummed in her hand, warming to her touch. Her relationship with the wand was one of partnership rather than mastery, so its full potential was hidden to Hermione; however, the limited power it was willing to offer her had always more than sufficed. Hermione dismissed her warding and warming charms, tamping down on the magic in her clothing so that it wouldn't interfere with her concealment charm.

The Cloak could hide one from even death, but it had a peculiar weakness; movements underneath the Cloak weren't silent and she wasn't about to be eaten because it did nothing to stop her from leaving footprints and the like. When she had erased as much evidence of her existence as she could, she silently accepted the proffered Cloak, the silky material falling like water down her shoulders. Unlike the Wand, she thought of the Cloak as an old friend, more reassuring than any child's security blanket.

Harry sent her off toward the dragons with an off-hand salute, while Hermione walked-crouching was redundant under a cloak of invisibility-straight toward the entrance they'd noted in their abortive attempt earlier in the day. _Oh, for a world without anti-Apparation barriers, _Hermione thought, keeping her eyes trained on the dragons.

Harry would lure them away before he made his own approach; it was never profitable to leave a potential enemy at one's back.

As she thought that, she heard the sky come alive with conjured or transfigured crows, cawing raucously as they descended on the dragons. The bird's claws and beaks scraped along the scales, but found purchase in softer, unguarded areas. Roaring with outrage more than pain, the dragons began breathing fire, great blazing streams of it.

She was nearly trampled, but twisted out of the way in time to avoid a clawed foot, finding herself in the shallow stairwell that led down into the earth. Working quickly, she cast the standard course of spells designed to unlock or open. Finding none that worked, suspecting blood magic, she opened a tunnel about fifteen feet to the right of the door-very few people had the time or magic to reinforce their bolt holes so that they were secure from every approach, instead concentrating on Apparation points and obvious entries such as doors and windows.

The dragons didn't appear to have noticed and there was no surge of malignant magic, so she proceeded to manipulate the stone that formed an interior wall, transfiguring it into sand. Gauging that she'd made a wide enough breach, she moved swiftly toward her entrance, tapping Harry's bicep as she swept past him. A moment later, his searching hand settled on her forearm, leaving both her hands free.

The sand gave way easily and they both were inside before any of the dragons noticed anything amiss, though Hermione hastily restored the wall, her makeshift door obvious to anyone who happened to glance at the stone.

Harry took point once they were inside. The bolt hole was just that, a small warren of rooms surrounding a central chamber, with all the magical pitfalls and trip wires that any aspiring megalomaniac could dream of. Harry had a sense for these sort of things, uncrafting in moments what others would take long minutes to unravel.

When a particularly clever disemboweling hex shriveled into nothing more than memory, Harry placed his hand flat against the door to the central room, closing his bottle-green eyes in concentration.

The door exploded beneath his hand, brilliant red light razing like the cracks in parched earth across the door a moment before it shattered.

Harry stepped inside and Hermione was his invisible shadow, careful to follow as exactly in his footprints as she could. Her eyes took in the room, heaped with treasure, the Anvil in the center of it all like an altar. Some pieces she recognized by their description. There, in the far corner, was the Luin of Celtchar, its flames quenched and controlled by the cauldron of water it stood in. Propping in another corner, as if it were nothing more than a walking stick, was Dyrwym. Gemstones, some as big as her fist, littered the floor like scattered children's toys.

All these treasures in one place made the man seem even smaller than he was, which was a feat considering that Allen Smelt was shorter than either Harry or Hermione, his body thin and wasted, his movements nervous. But his expression was alive with hate. "I was hoping they would send you," he snarled at Harry.

"Why?" Harry asked, though he didn't put much energy into making it sound as if it was a sincere question. "Did you really think that you'd have a better chance against me than someone else? I have to admit, that'd be a new response to seeing me. A little deranged, maybe, but with your record, I guess that'd be par the course."

The man sneered. "It's you and people like you that are weakening our magic. Hundreds of years ago, no one would have flinched at making animals serve a higher purpose beyond breeding and making war on themselves."

"...right. Well, about that, the Ministry would rather wizards _didn't _harm nonmagical humans."

"The Ministry is nothing but a nest of bumbling fools eager to please the public by adopting any soft-hearted sentiment that passes by them," Smelt accused. "Animal rights has become popular, but that does not make it right. They cannot even leave behind ghosts; they have no more souls than toads do. And I don't appreciate being told how to think."

"Oh, I get the bit about being told what to think. But," Harry shrugged. "I'm not a mass murderer. And I'm not really here to hear your motives. I'll hand over your brain to the Unspeakables and they'll do their bit after you're dead."

Hermione had managed to flank Smelt without notice, though she did not put herself opposite Harry. Elder Wand extended, she waited for Harry's signal. Despite the fact they would be handing Smelt's brain over, it was always good policy to at least attempt a rudimentary questioning concerning accomplices, because there were various Oaths and wards that could prevent the Unspeakables from accessing that information while the other wizards yet lived.

Smelt didn't seem frightened of Harry's casual death threat. Instead, he seemed pleased by it, if anything, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a fierce caricature of a smile. "Oh, I know the punishment. Nothing lasts forever. But to have you here is more than I could have hoped for."

He moved and Hermione assumed he was drawing his wand and a curse built on her tongue-and froze there. It was as if time itself crystallized and drew to a halt. Smelt struggled to lift something that had been hidden in the folds of his cloak. A hammer. "Did you know that this Anvil can combine separate elements of any kind or complexity?" he asked rhetorically. "I discovered it when I was first learning to forge animals into something useful. Men with beasts. Men with metal. Even wizards with other wizards," he said, his voice softening into an odd croon as he said the last.

He produced something from his cloak then, something that glittered as brightly as a star. "Six wizards in their prime to make this. It's a pity that I will never get to name it. It is my life's masterpiece. And this room contains my life's collection of dark artifacts; even if you should survive, Harry Potter, it would only be as a monster. Who will be the hero then?" Smelt asked snidely, placing the glittering, crystallized life force on the center of the Anvil. "I'm looking forward to seeing the great, noble Harry Potter fall-along with that mudblood whore hiding behind my back."

With a great heaving breath, Smelt brought the hammer above his head in a great arc, then down, down, down it came.

And everything shattered, as if it were glass.

A/N: Some of the magical items mentioned in this chapter are the product of my imagination, but most of the weapons are from Irish or Anglo-Saxon mythology. Even the ones from my imagination are gleaned from the properties of mythological figures, such of the Morrigan or Badb, which are Irish deities of battle, and Morgan le Fay, a sorceress from the Arthurian cycle. The one common theme in superhero movies seems to be the gadgets, whether magical or the product of advanced science. It's all in the name of putting our favorite wizards in the mode of the superhero genre.


	2. Gegenschein

A/N: I haven't read the comics, so when we finally meet Loki, his powers will be primarily those he used in the movies, with some additions such as that of shapeshifting.

To Ride Upon Svaldifari

-Chapter Two-

Gegenschein

_How did he-? _Hermione's reason untangled the puzzle even as pain beyond anything she had ever known washed across her skin like an unholy baptism. _He was watching in the mirror. He saw me disappear beneath a cloak of invisibility-where else would I have gone, except to support Harry? _

_And what was that spell, there at the end? A wandless, wordless Petrificus Totalus? But I couldn't use my magic. What kind of artifact...?_

But reason was soon swallowed up, because this was something unlike the Cruciatas-then she could feebly remind herself that the pain was in her nerves, in her mind, that it was only the magic coursing through her body that made it hurt so badly. That there would be an end to it, because not even the most powerful wizard could cast the Cruciatas indefinitely.

Now she wasn't so certain. Her hands burned like they had been scorched by dragon fire from fingertip to elbow, but she could feel beyond that pain a faint shadow of pressure, like they'd been placed in a vice. Something felt like it was _burrowing _into the back of her head, long, hard legs pressing against the sides of her skull. Bits of what felt like stone or glass buried themselves deep in the skin of her face, pricking at her eyes. A sharp pain from her ankles, as if someone was scraping back the flesh and then severing the tendons they found there with a nearly blunt blade. A thousand other little harms drilled at her like bees, but as she tried to desperately stretch her awareness beyond herself she found little comfort in the way the room dipped and shuddered, almost as if everything in it was presented to her through a convex mirror.

She tried to focus her eyes and take herself away from the prison of her own body, away from the rawness of a throat whose vocal cords had passed the point of being able to scream. But the evidence of her eyes was not reassuring, for she saw not stone wall but a flat horizon, stretching out into darkness.

Harry had been screaming, but it _twisted_ and then a dragon was shrieking.

_I'm going to die, _Hermione thought with a sense of detachment. She supposed she ought to have been overwhelmed with regrets and thoughts of things left unfinished, but Hermione had met the goals she had set for herself and she was meticulous by nature; she never left for a mission without telling Ron that she loved him. So it was not that that motivated her continued struggle, but rather an innate stubbornness; she would not lay down and die unless her body failed her, for her soul never would.

The magic she touched in herself was disturbed and disordered, but she blanketed the screaming of her nerves; if she should die from injuries real rather than imagined, she would at least be able to able to _think. _

Her sigh of relief scraped the raw tissue of her throat, but she was able to feel only a blissful sense of emptiness. Hermione's eyes had adjusted to the darkness while she'd been wrangling her pain, pulling together her will in order to be able to cast the spell effectively. She could almost imagine she stood on the face of the moon, the sand beneath her feet was so unending and featureless, the sky above her so lit with stars such as she hadn't seen since the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts. But no, there was the moon.

And before her, keening on the sand, was the male Hungarian Horntail. It rolled pained eyes toward her and she found them a startling, familiar shade rather than the luminous gold that was typical of their species. "Hrrn." It was a low, odd sound from such a large beast, but it was repeated again, louder but just as soulful. "Hrrn."

"Harry?" Hermione asked softly.

A soft puff of breath kicked up the sand in affirmation. Hermione reached out, intending to touch Harry-perhaps to quiet his suffering, to reassure him and herself-but she caught sight of her own hands and froze.

For it was not her familiar hands she saw, but the dull, blackened surface of the gauntlets known as the Red Hands of the Morrigan. She paused for a long moment, then, in the harsh light and long shadows of the moon, she began to search for a clasp or release, tugging futilely at the fully articulated fingers that gave the impression of the claws of a crow.

"Merlin's balls," she hissed. "Just hang on a moment, Harry. I'll Apparate to St. Mungo's and have them send someone from Spell Damage-I can't get these cursed gauntlets off and I can't Side-Along a dragon."

Concentrating fiercely, for she had no notion of how far they were from St. Mungo's, Hermione recalled the Apparation room that was reserved for Hit Wizards, picturing every angle of the distinctive, memorable decor with such clarity that she imagined she could close her eyes, step forward, and find herself at her destination.

Only for pain to sheer across her eyes like a razor blade, reverberating throughout her body when she stepped into the familiar twisting motion of Apparation. She was left gasping in the sand, coughing up spittle faintly tinged with red where she'd bitten her tongue. Her stomach roiled with nausea, but she tamped it down as Harry crawled closer, leaving an enormous wake behind him where his tail dragged through the sand.

"I'm fine," she murmured out of habit, though she was beginning to suspect she was very much not fine. "I couldn't Apparate. It didn't feel like a ward..."

She glanced up at the dragon-self of her best friend, who was regarding her solemnly as he wheezed, each gust warming her chilled bones just a little. Hermione worried her lower lip. "Harry, I don't know-I'm very good at human transfiguration, but I don't think-I don't know any healing spells that work on dragons-Harry, if Smelt was telling the truth about the Anvil..."

She didn't need to finish her thought aloud; she saw the realization dawn in his eyes. The possibility that Harry's soul had been forged with a dragon's body. Translucent eyelids shielded his green eyes, then more normal eyelids shuttered the expressive windows as Harry turned his gaze inward. What he searched for, she couldn't guess, but Hermione dug in her billowing sleeves for her purse.

The Hit Wizard uniform was comprised of two layers, a form-fitted underlayer that was spelled Re'em leather, then the obligatory robe, in this case more fitted than most through the body and with the sleeves slashed to the shoulder, the fullness of the sleeves left to hang at their sides. They were partially stitched up, made to function as pockets, with enough enchantment laid on them to store and conceal a waraxe if needed.

She found her purse, fumbling with the fastenings, but at last the item she'd been searching for tumbling into her waiting hands. A mirror.

"Shades of Slytherin," it said when it caught sight of her. "What have you done to yourself, woman?" For a moment, she regretted choosing a mirror with personality of a lumberjack, but she'd gotten tired rather quickly of the nagging mirrors of the magical world. When her mirror worried about her appearance, she knew before she looked that it would be something she couldn't correct without the aid of proper Healers.

Blood had made a mask of her face, runnels and streaks of it obscuring most of her skin, but what she did see was not reassuring. Glittering in the moonlight, shards of what seemed to be glass clustered about her eyes like the red body glitter Ginny occasionally wore to parties. Pieces clung to her eyelashes so thickly that they seemed of a single piece. She tried to prize them off, but they clung tenaciously and she was worried that one mishap with the Hands would leave her blind, so she left the glass be.

Her hair was pulled away from her face but left long and loose as she never wore it; there was some sort of ornament made of dark metal just visible within her hairline at her temples. She traced it back to where it met itself, feeling the protrusion of something. A diadem of sorts, though the ornamentation was reversed so that the main decoration was situated behind her head rather than resting on her forehead. "Jack, describe what you see," she ordered, shifting the mirror over the top of her head.

"Some sort of hairpiece designed by someone's evil stepmother," Jack suggested. "With the biggest fucking ruby I have ever seen sitting right in the middle of it staring at me like the evil eye."

This time, even Harry's breath couldn't warm the chill that shot through her. _Morgan's Heart. _It was one of the largest, finest, clearest rubies ever discovered-but it could also drive the wearer to extreme acts of vengeance for even mild betrayals and it could only be appeased by blood. That was the price for the power it offered, which was an amplification of one's natural magic.

It wouldn't allow itself to be removed any more than the gauntlets, even though she dug new furrows in her skin trying. Heart beginning to flutter in her chest, she shrieked in surprise as she began to disappear.

"Hermione?!" the voice was lower, rougher than usual, as if the vocal cords that spoke them weren't really meant for human speech.

Hermione's gaze snapped upwards, to meet Harry's-or almost-Harry's. He hadn't been able to completely reverse the transfiguration, or perhaps hadn't been able to completely transform himself into a human. The Harry who was her partner had never really managed to shed that gawkish first impression, though most anyone knew that he was perhaps the powerful wizard in the U.K. Still, it was his magic, not his physique that was the stuff of legend.

Harry himself had a lean Quidditch build and the slightness of a natural Seeker. With his glasses and the hair that had never completely shed its unruly nature, he could pass as someone's P.A.

This was not that Harry.

Lean muscles stood in stark relief beneath the leather of his uniform, his height startling, especially as she was crouched on the ground staring up at him. Claw-tipped fingers reached for her and she jerked away sharply. Hurt crossed his face, his eyes oddly more expressive with their slit pupils and the scales edging his eyes lending him a somehow exotic look, almost like he'd edged his eyes with kohl. But it was the horns that were most startling addition. The same shape that the Hungarian's horns had been, they had been scaled to something that only looked outrageous, emerging from his skull and framing it like they were a crown. A row of shorter horns emerging above his eyebrows, three on each side, each slightly taller than the next as they approached the outer edge of his face, the greatest set of horns emerging just behind his hairline, slightly swept back, then a final pair three or four inches further back.

"The Hands," Hermione reminded him and relief replaced hurt. "I can't take them off and I don't know if they're dormant."

"Sorry. Wasn't thinking," Harry rasped. "You're still disappearing."

Her initial panic had passed-she had realized she could still feel the invisible limbs. But her voice still shook."I think...I think it's the Cloak."

"The Cloak? You're not wearing..." his voice trailed off.

She cleared her throat once, twice. "I think," she said in a very low voice, "I'm not 'wearing' any of these, Harry. There's," her voice caught, despite herself, "there's nothing in the research on the Red Hands that says they can't be removed or that there's a special way to remove them. I'd believe it of Morgan's Heart-it's clearly a Dark artifact-but despite what the Red Hands _do_, they're not supposed to malicious in themselves to the wearer."

"You think," Harry said slowly, "that they're forged in your flesh?"

Hermione winced to hear him say it aloud, tears of frustration spilling from her eyes. "What went wrong, Harry?" she asked plaintively.

Skirting around her and crouching, Harry's arms-unfamiliar and harder than human flesh ought to be be-wrapped themselves firmly about her. Her skin prickled as the sudden heat against her back and there was a faint flinch from Harry as if he was startled by the relative coolness of her skin. "We walked into his stronghold," Harry murmured, "and we were arrogant, and we were outmatched. But," he said, his voice taking on a puckish tone, "when we get this figured out and get home, I'm writing this day down on the calendar. I've never heard you be so wrong about anything. _If Merlin himself couldn't use the Anvil, Harry, of course Smelt couldn't possibly have figured it out,_" he mimicked.

"Although," Harry allowed, "he looked pretty damn surprised about _something_ when he smashed his glittering rock-I don't think he meant to take us anywhere else."

"I'd have rather he looked smugly satisfied," Hermione said with as much humor as she could muster, which wasn't much at all. "At least then we'd know that all went to plan or at least that he had a plan beyond seeing what happens when you use a legendary magical object to smash things together in the manner of a modern Prometheus. If he didn't intend it..."

"It makes it even more difficult to figure out what he did," Harry said, completing her thought. "Can you tell where we are?" he asked after a long silent moment.

Hermione frowned, then glanced up at the stars again. "Provided that he didn't move us through time or something equally outrageous? Yes." She tilted her head as she called to mind the endless star charts they'd been called upon to memorize at Hogwarts, tracing in her mind constellations that would give her a rough idea where they were. The desert itself was a good indication they were no longer deep in the forests of Russia, where they'd eventually cornered Smelt. But there were deserts scattered across the planet and by moonlight, with no plants or animals, she couldn't guess what manner of desert it was.

"We're in the northern hemisphere," Hermione said. "And we're obviously in a desert, so perhaps North America or Asia. There isn't a great deal of sandy desert of this sort to be had in Europe, unless we're somewhere in the Middle East. There are rather a lot of possibilties."

"So we're bloody halfway across the world from where we started if we're in North America. I'd say that was the reason you couldn't Apparate, but Apparation is as easy twelve miles away as two-it just takes more focus to not splinch yourself. You should have been able to do it. Especially with the Elder Wand's help. You do still _have _the wand, right?"

Her own wand was in its holster, just where she had left it, but the Elder Wand was nowhere to be found-not even Harry could rouse it, despite the fact it still considered him its master. "Merlin's balls," Harry muttered, standing and pacing sharply in front of her. "I don't think it would let itself be left behind-at least not for Smelt. I hope that breaking his soul-rock killed him. Or maybe made that thrice-cursed hammer of his part of his face."

"What about the Stone?"

Harry tugged at the chain he wore about his neck, producing a locket. Opening it, he revealed only an empty interior where the Stone had once reposed. His eyes narrowed. There was a realization that he not only looked odd for the scales, but also his lack of glasses; they'd shattered or been lost in their journey. "These are the Hallows," he murmured. "Not even the Anvil should be able to-" his voice trailed off. "Hermione, were there any artifacts on the list that could create invisibility?"

Hermione shook her head. "Invisibility cloaks are rare, but what Smelt had collected in that vault were so rare that they were named, Harry. And there _are _other artifacts-helms and the like, but I didn't see any of them on the list. Not that the list was necessarily comprehensive, but Harry...I don't know how to say this, but it feels familiar, somehow."

Harry nodded grimly. "I think I know. Still, the thought of anything able to manipulate the _Hallows-_."

Hermione bit her bottom lip, wrapping her arms around herself, heedless of the gauntlets. "But he wasn't able to change the nature of the Cloak," she pointed out. "Just change the form. The Stone was set in a ring once, but that didn't alter what it was. And the Wand-we've suspected before that it could alter its form, didn't we? Otherwise everyone would have recognized Dumbledore's wand for what it was. There have been paintings of former wielders and even though they all claimed to have been depicted carrying the Wand, it looks different in each of them."

"So you think that the Stone and Wand are here? We just can't recognize them?"

Hermione shrugged helplessly and Harry sighed. "Alright. So, we don't know for certain where we are. Do we have somewhere closer we can Apparate to? The sooner that we can get a Portkey back to the Ministry and have them retrieve the Anvil, the less chance any of this is permanent."

"In Asia there are, but I've never been in the United States. I-" Hermione blinked, trying to clear her vision. "Harry, around my eyes-"

"Something wrong?" he asked sharply.

"I think-I think I have shards of the Mirror of Viviane embedded in my skin," she said, her voice breathy and near-hysterical. She felt the need to laugh and cry simultaneously; here she was, here Harry was, with the kind of power that people slaughtered each other over and all she could think was that with so much magic rioting through her, it would be a wonder if she survived it.

So she thought as she stared down at their little island of darkness amongst the lights of habitation from where she sat on the desert floor.

Harry gently prodded the glass that was gathered so thickly around her eyes. "Your eyelashes look like they could double as weapons," he tried to tease, but it fell flat.

"I-I can't see you, Harry. I'm looking down at us-I hate heights!" she protested without any clear sense of how it mattered, only knowing panic. "I've never scryed, Harry. I don't know how to change the image."

"I have," Harry said, rubbing his thumb across her cheek. "Close your eyes. It'll disrupt the scrying."

Hermione did as he told her and found that she was staring through her normal eyes again. Just as quickly as it had come, the panic ebbed; Hermione knew that her phobia was irrational, but unless mounted solidly on a living beasts, she would never be convinced that humans were meant to fly.

"So, looks like you got the lion's share of artifacts and I got to be a dragon," he said, wearing his crooked grin as one might a shield. "At least I can fly."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You know as well as I do that part of the reason that wizards create magical artifacts is to utilize the natural abilities of magical beasts. The fact that dragons are almost completely immune to charms and spells, the fact they can fly when they violate every law of aerodynamics ever dreamt of, and the sheer strength of their life force gives you the advantage. If this wasn't _the _Cloak, you could probably see right through it. You're still prettier than Mad-Eye. As for me, I've a jeweled hairpiece that will take over my mind if I try to use it, gauntlets," she clicked her fingers together for emphasis, "whose primary purpose is to bring doom in battle, and a mirror embedded in my face like gravel after a particularly bad car accident."

His grin was more genuine by the end of her tirade. "You've forgotten to mention that those are only the obvious ones-there was a ton of stuff in that room."

"Ha, ha, hi_lar_ious Harry," she drawled, finally standing herself, determinedly sweeping away the sand that clung to her legs. "You want to try Apparating us? I'm not quite up to discovering if one of my new accessories will facilitate splinching myself if I try again."

Harry grinned at her, then with a quick step around her, hugged her from behind, this time threading his arms below hers, his hands interlocking themselves just below her breasts. "Feeling safe now?"

"Hardly. Try somewhere nonmagical-it might be that St. Mungo's wards reacted to one of the artifacts. Which it shouldn't have; it's a secure room and it's _meant _to be used for situations like this. Secluded, if you can manage it. Can you still use a Notice-Me-Not charm? Or will your magic interfere with it?"

"If anyone starts screaming," Harry said dryly, "I guess we'll know I failed. I don't even know if dragons _can _Apparate. Can you...put on the Cloak? Activate the Cloak? Don the Cloak?"

"Render myself invisible?" she asked cheekily. "I've no idea. It's easy enough to slip it on when it's a tangible object, but..." Hermione trailed off, worrying her lip as she considered the usual methods of activation for artifacts. Invocations, movements, none of it seemed likely. She wasn't as good as Harry with spells that required her to focus on feelings rather than something more concrete, but she tried to imagine the complete _safety _that the Cloak imparted. It must have worked, because she felt Harry's grip tighten, then they were pulled through space in the familiar sensation of breaking a natural law.

No one screamed or even startled when they landed with a harsh crack, their sudden appearance shoving aside the air that had previously occupied their space like a thunderclap in miniature.

Hermione recognized the stretch of street that Harry had Apparated them to-it was the street she walked on the days when she didn't Floo or Apparate in to the Ministry. But the phone booth that marked the visitor's entrance to the Ministry was gone. Absent. Not hidden, there was no sense of magic, but erased from the stretch of concrete like it had never existed at all.

"Try...try to take us to the Ministry," Hermione forced out.

Harry did. But no matter how he snarled and envisioned destinations designed for Apparation within the Ministry, there was nothing but the sharp pain of a failed Apparation. Cursing through his teeth, he tried to take them to Diagon Ally, but again they found shunted to the side, only Harry's powerful magic protecting them from being splinched. Panting on a cold, unfriendly sidewalk in London, Hermione shuddered as she came to terms with the story the evidence told.

St. Mungo's did not exist. The Ministry did not exist. Diagon Alley did not exist.

They were in a world not their own.


	3. Worlds At Apastron

To Ride Upon Svalifari

-Chapter Three-

Worlds At Apastron

Hermione was barely aware of Harry snarling Smelt's name, his magic breaching the material of the world and shifting them instantly to the deep forests of Russia. Where they'd been not an hour ago in her memory, but there was nothing. No subterranean rooms, no dragons, not even the malevolent shadow of so many artifacts of power kept in a single space.

"Stop, Harry," she whispered when his fingers dug deeply into her ribs, the weight of his grief expressed in the tightness of his grip. "Just...give me a moment."

For long seconds, it seemed he wouldn't let go, that he would have them tearing blindly across the planet desperately searching for signs of magic or the one who had brought them here, but then he sagged against her back. "This can't be happening," he said softly, the words more a movement against her hair than something audible.

Hermione ignored him and his misery, because if she lost herself in his outrage, she would be useless to both of them. Instead she searched her memory for any spell that could create an effect like this, not willing to instantly invest herself wholly in the idea that Smelt had discovered how to use the Anvil.

There had been debates during their briefing about the manner in which he'd managed to make life itself into an object that could be bought and sold, but even though they'd speculated on use of the Anvil, very few people had believed that was how he'd achieved it. Most would sooner believe that he had managed to invent a new process rather than rediscovered use of that particular artifact. There had been a good deal of speculation that perhaps he had somehow managed to finally managed to perfect a Cauldron of Youth, the Dark variation of the Philosopher's Stone.

The Stone was the more remarkable of the two because it provided an endless source of youth without cost beyond the initial effort and research that had to go into the production of a Philosopher's Stone. A Cauldron, by contrast, could only offer limited youth equal to the amount of life distilled in it by virtue of tossing a living person into its depths and essentially boiling them down into their life essence. But until this point, the Cauldron had been only theory; a working one hadn't been seen since the Middle Ages. The prospect was still less frightening and more reasonable than using the Anvil.

Allen Smelt had not inherited a predisposition for the Dark Arts from his parents. They had both been involved in the field of alchemy and were of middling renown but impeccable pureblood lineage. They had also been killed by Muggle bombs during the First World War, a result of an unlucky, ill-timed Apparation from the Unplottable space of their laboratory to the world above. Smelt had been away at Hogwarts at the time, a Hufflepuff of above-average intelligence frustrated at the lack of Alchemical classes available as part of the Hogwarts curriculum.

He hadn't taken news of their deaths well, but after a two-month period of deep grief, he'd seemed to pull himself together with the intent of carrying on his parent's legacy.

But he'd made no progress on creating a Philosopher's Stone and that was really the only Alchemical pursuit in vogue during the period; his other research had found itself shunted to the side, despite being highly profitable as he could turn lead into gold pure enough for even goblin-made jewelry. He'd even picked up a contract with Ministry to provide gold to mint new Galleons.

Wealth had given him the opportunity to indulge his interests in magical objects; a heretofore unknown talent for thievery had apparently allowed him wider scope in collecting than most. He'd never outgrown his reedy slightness, though Hermione had only been being catty when she'd called him a rat of a man. He was no different in that regard than most intellectuals, slightly balding with pinched features. Smelt had never married, but he'd maintained several friendship from school.

None of them had indicated any suspicion of what Smelt had really been doing and investigation had revealed no sign of compulsion on any of them. Though it had been their investigation into his friends' minds that had revealed to Smelt their interest; the team had had the poor luck to be present when Smelt had made a surprise visit to one of his colleagues.

He'd immediately assessed the situation and, rather than fleeing, had chatted quite amiably with the investigators, which was part of the reason that Harry and Hermione had been less wary than they ought to have been in confronting them, the open and gleefully malicious aspect he'd displayed a clear indication that he was well aware that he couldn't escape.

And he wasn't one to go softly into that dark night.

Still, there was nothing in his background that indicated to Hermione what he had done to them. Putting aside for the moment the Anvil, she carefully and methodically dissected the other possibilities.

There were spells that could make one blind to the presence of certain objects, somewhat like a focused Secret-Keeping spell. But it was limited in scope-erasing a particular person or place from a person's senses, no matter how desperately they searched for it. Erasing everything associated with magic? That was a feat almost as unbelievable as using the Anvil.

Magic didn't have much use for illusions of the mind when it could create things in reality except as a kind of entertainment, but there were spells like the Daydream Charm that could create worlds in which anything was possible. Were they caught in a kind of nightmare charm? Admittedly, she'd never seen one of this scope and complexity, but it could be possible. If they were trapped within it, they had limited options.

Normally, such charms were created with a finite duration, though potentially Smelt could keep them within it until he died, his body gave out under the force of the magic he wielded, or she and Harry perished. They had had other options, before they had used their magic. But they had exerted their will over this place and in doing so had made it their reality-they could no more escape that than their own world.

And there it was again, the phrase that most unnerved her. She wanted to believe it was a charm, but even if it was the convergence of magic and their minds that had created it, it still remained that they were presently trapped within an alien world.

"Hermione?" Harry whispered.

She realized she must have gone silent for a long time and she mentally shook off the thoughts that had snared her. "It...might be a charm," she said at last. "Like the Patented Daydream Charm. If it is, there should be a trigger to end it. But with the Daydream Charm, the trigger is in the instructions. Even if it wasn't the charm only creates a limited world-a beach, a bedroom, that sort of thing."

"And this one has created an entire world. But if it's not a charm?"

Tears beaded on the glass that encased her lashes. "Then I don't _know_, Harry. I've never heard of anything like this."

His arms tightened around her, as if afraid she might evaporate and leave him alone in their quandary. "So, how does one find out how to travel from one world to another?" he asked gruffly.

Hermione hesitated. All the libraries of the magical world were beyond their reach, as were the resources she usually consulted when books alone weren't enough. She had her personal library, but she knew its contents well enough to know that there wasn't a single book that could address this issue. Which, as far as she knew, was unprecedented. Her mind, quicker than it needed to be at the moment, pointed out that this might only indicate that no one had ever returned. "I don't know," she admitted slowly. "If there aren't any Wizards in this world..."

"Then there are only Muggles. And last time I knew, they couldn't travel between London and Bath without taking a train, let alone between worlds," Harry finished the thought.

"Yes," Hermione agreed quietly.

"So, what then?" he demanded. "We just give up?"

"No. We look anyway."

It was easier said than done. Glamour charms could be used to hide their aberrations, but it became quickly obvious that whatever Smelt had done, he'd really fucked up how their magic interacted with basic charms. Because even the least use of magic-to turn aside notice, to ward her clothes against being splashed by water as London drivers were their usual manic selves, to summon books-caused the glamour to fall. Only luck prevented them from being noticed, though she'd sworn her heart would stop as she stood in full view of Muggles wearing the form the Smelt had forced upon her. Harry had taken in the situation in an instant and pulsed magic through the CCTV systems, likely causing all sorts of property damage as technology did as it was wont to do in the face of magic: fail spectacularly.

Even though Hermione was Muggleborn and had a great deal more faith in the nonmagical segment of humanity than most Wizards, she was also aware of what she and Harry looked like. Even her own parents would have called the police and she wouldn't have blamed them. Even in the Wizarding world, she imaged that someone might have summoned the Aurors on catching sight of the pair of them, she fairly rank with Dark magic and Harry obviously the product of a nightmarish copulation or a spell gone terribly wrong.

So, reduced completely to Muggle methods, she discovered an uncomfortable truth as they struggled through their first few days on the world in which they had been marooned. Her purse, still kitted out for a campaign in the wilderness, which had more than a time or two been the butt of Ron's good-natured scorn, was what gave them some measure of security. There was a tent, so they needn't worry about shelter, and this time she'd thought to bring food under preservation charms. Not enough for a truly prolonged period, but enough to give them a few months breathing space.

But that was all that went easily for them.

Hermione Granger, who still had Mudblood carved along her forearm and would until she died, knew almost nothing about modern technology. As a child, she'd been more interested in books than computers, then as a young adult she'd been more focused on spells than programming and the internet. As an adult, she'd acclimated almost entirely to Wizarding culture, because there wasn't time enough to learn absolutely everything there was to know about anything.

Especially as Muggle technology, for all the things it was capable of, seemed somewhat redundant and frankly less magical than what magic could produce. The fact that most electronic devices couldn't function in magical environments had only reinforced the prejudice.

Intellectual humiliation was the most bitter experience she could imagine, but she swallowed down her shame and allowed condescending research librarians to recommend taking one of the free seminars on computer use. She ignored pointed remarks to the tune of _What are they teaching in schools nowadays? _ When she sat in the room, as bemused as Muggles four times her age as their lecturer did his level best to not be impatient even though he clearly thought that computers were as necessary to people as breathing and was therefore somewhat aghast that no one could tell him what a browser was, she simmered in silence, only comforted by the fact that Harry was at her side and was as confused by it all as she was.

But even once she learned to navigate the medium of the Internet with shaky confidence, she discovered nothing of use to them. It became very quickly clear there was no equivalent to their magic in this world. Muggle technology, though she was no judge of it, as her ignorance of computers had proved, seemed to have advanced further in its absence. The news sites were littered with articles about a very wealthy Muggle named Tony Stark, whose fame for his immense wealth and sudden switch out of the weapons industry was only eclipsed by his reputation as Iron Man. The media termed him a 'superhero,' but Hermione was only interested in the revolutionary nature of his technology. She might have been out of touch with Muggle technological development, but she had a suspicion that not even Wizards could have overlooked men who could fly and shoot missiles from a mechanized suit.

His developments were not in the vein that would lead them home, but his advances made her hope that the Muggles of this world had developed the relevant inroads on travel between worlds. Research gave her better terms, which in turn expanded her knowledge, though it was an eternal scramble to learn of the advances while at the same time re-learning the basic science that supported those advances.

Days turned to weeks, which evolved into months, and they soldiered onward, though hope looked further away than ever. In all that time, the charm had not once faltered, if it was a charm, and if it was not, the ability to cross to other worlds-dimensions, as seemed to be the preferred term, giving it a veneer of scientific respectability-was something that was only theory among Muggles and not even well-accepted theory at that. Travel between planets, even planets far distant in the universe, awaited only the development a technology that would make faster than the speed of light travel possible. It was an inevitability. But traveling to a parallel dimension? That was a madman's dream, because not all scientists were convinced that dimensions parallel to their own even existed.

But there were names, scientists who pursued it as a field of study despite the disapproval of their peers and the scarcity of grants to fund such research.

But those men and women, who might offer the only path home, were about as accessible as Hogwart's library. And even if they used magic against every moral they'd ever been taught and against every law they'd ever served, she doubted it would make a difference. The technology to realize these scientists' theories still lay years in the future. And Hermione didn't know enough-it never seemed like enough-to synthesize the Muggle's science and their magic, if such a fact was even feasibly given that the two sources of power might well cancel each other out.

They were living in the U.S. for the simple fact neither of them could stand to dwell in an England that wasn't their own. They stayed at a shelter for a time after they arrived, because they couldn't be separate from Muggle culture forever, transitioning into a work-training program run by a local church and various housing situations as they struggled to assimilate with no Muggle currency and no identification of any kind.

She knew that the pastor who'd taken them under his wing thought that they were runaways. It was pointless to try to hide their distinctive accents, which made it clear that they hadn't been long in the United States. And though neither was particularly aware of it, it was also clear that they'd spent many of their formative years in an exclusive public school and many of their adult years in a smaller, somewhat secluded population that had far different social apparatuses at work. The pastor assumed, quite prosaically, that that public school had been somewhat more mundane than one of Witchcraft and Wizardry; the smaller population was assumed to be a secluded hamlet somewhere in the U.K.

He never asked why they'd run away, but while it might have been more difficult to explain had they appeared to be adults, Wizarding aging had the benefit of a much slower transition in visible appearance. Though she was twenty-nine and Harry twenty-eight, neither looked older than eighteen. And there were many believable reasons for children-cum-adults to escape from home. Whichever of those he believed, Hermione could only be grateful for it, because even if she'd given the most powerful and pervasive government agency her real name, they wouldn't have been able to find evidence of her.

Hermione Granger did not exist in this world. Neither did her parents, nor did the Dursleys. No one from her memories did, not even the children whose names she'd been able to recall from primary. Her extended family might never have existed; there was not even the graveyard where the Potter predecessors had been buried.

They were essentially illegal, undocumented aliens, but they'd settled near where they'd first arrived, which turned out to be in Arizona. So they were hardly alone in that status, though they had the advantage of an easy command of English and, shamefully enough, the fact that they were clearly Caucasian, which meant that many people simply assumed that they were citizens.

The pastor, whose name was Frank White, guided them gently but firmly through the citizenship process, somehow inducing someone to produce paperwork that they lacked, signing them up for a G.E.D. program, and employing them to do clerical work for his church as part of his work-training program, which was intended to give meaningful employment while imparting marketable work skills.

It was almost half a year before Hermione became confident enough to take the G.E.D, sitting in on evening classes while during the day she learned basic workplace programs for computers and re-accustomed herself to answering the phone rather than responding to Firecalls. Everything that Muggles considered basic knowledge seemed almost a foreign language to a country she would have never cared to visit and seemed almost as irrelevant. What use science when you had potions and alchemy? What use the higher maths when you could conjure and transfigure? Statistics paled in comparison to arithmancy; the history of the United States seemed short and shallow compared to the long history of magic and the wars that had been fought in secret and in public. She ached for magic and missed it desperately, but discipline could be called the religion of Hit Wizards. She never gave in, not to the desire, nor to the despair.

She was no longer Hermione Granger, whose name _meant _something. She had the appearance of just another eighteen year old runaway, struggling to make it in a world where she had no allies or advantages. She didn't know what would happen when years began to pass and neither she nor Harry aged according to Muggle standards, but she had no intention of being in this world that long.

If science failed her, she would take what she needed from the mythologies of the Muggles, whether by discovering that there was some truth in their legends or simply creating her own spell, though the rational part of her mind recalled with ease that the combined magical potential and lifeforce of six Wizards was shattered on the Anvil to bring them here. She refused to even contemplate what might have to serve as a substitute for that; what might substitute for the Anvil was even more unimaginable.

So they haunted places where the bizarre and supernatural were rumored about, when not busily establishing their existence and seeking the answers in other venues. Only the ease of travel offered by Apparation and facilitated by use of Vivian's Mirror made it possible, but even so Hermione found herself in a state of perpetual exhaustion.

Most of the rumors were simply that, Muggle imagination run wild, but at times Hermione would have taken a Wand-Oath on the fact that there was something different, something odd. Something...magical.

But none of it led home.


	4. Blueshift

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Four-

Blueshift

S.H.I.E.L.D. was many things. Secretive to a fault, possessed of technology decades beyond what was available to the public, and utilitarian nearly to the point of cruelty. It had little issue with employees without any real family outside the company. It only made it that much easier for them to vanish without fuss, should something untoward happen to them in the course of discharging their duties. Which wasn't exactly an unexpected result, given the nature of the organization. But though their approach was standard issue government spy agency, they did make it a point to not irritate their most valuable assets-their agents-by making them fetch their own coffee and perform duties that they rightly regarded as being beneath their pay grade.

Hermione Granger had never in her life imagined herself as a secretary. Though S.H.I.E.L.D. used the more politically correct and presumably gender neutral term personal assistant, the substance of the job hadn't really changed with the shift in title. Hermione had once had a secretary she'd shared with Harry as Hit Wizards and that witch had given her some very wise advice, in what seemed some days to be almost another life: "The secretaries know everything."

In S.H.I.E.L.D., that was somewhat less than true, but it brought her closer than she would otherwise come to her goal. Their goal. Hermione and Harry monitored, through the surprisingly useful medium of the internet, the location and progress of the dozen or so scientists around the world that were publicly working on theories or technologies that could be used to bridge dimensions. "Publish or perish" was the reality of academia, so even the most obsessive of scientists needed to make themselves heard on occasion, in order that the people who provided money for research were at least satisfied enough with their progress to renew their grants.

There had been a pair of scientists in New Mexico whose special interest was in creating or discovering an Einstein-Rosen bridge. Dr. Erik Selvig and his protégée, Jane Foster. Their work wasn't particularly well-received, or well-funded for that matter, they being the astrophysicist equivalent of stormchasers. Many had been the peer-reviewed paper that had inspired a scathing analysis on the probability of a natural Einstein-Rosen bridge existing on Earth. And for those who thought it might be possible as a temporary phenomenon, they still held that it was highly improbable that it could be found, documented, and investigated before it collapsed in on itself.

There had been an incident of some kind in New Mexico, where they'd set up a makeshift laboratory, so quickly and thoroughly covered up that it could only be the work of the federal government. When their articles stopped appearing in the usual journals, Hermione had become interested enough to investigate thoroughly.

And illegally, which wasn't something she had done since Hogwarts on a scale large enough to involve governments. But between she and Harry, they had managed to discover just what section of the U.S. government had been interested in Selvig and Foster's work. The acronym S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't meant anything to either of them at first glance, but when she hadn't been able to locate it in any government registries, the first spark of excitement had kindled into a steadier flame.

Someone in an incredibly secretive section of the government had seen potential in their work. And knowing what she did about governments, Hermione had come to the conclusion that whatever they had managed, whether it was the discovery of an Einstein-Rosen bridge or something else entirely, it was viable and useful to the United States government. She could only hope that it could also be useful to them.

Hermione hesitated to call what they had done infiltrating-they sabotaged no plans, communicated no classified information, in fact did their best to treat it as a normal job, such as it was, though they had used their ability to remain invisible to Muggles to discover how one applied for and was hired to a position in S.H.I.E.L.D., which didn't exactly post their openings in the want ads.

Clerical work was the only kind of work either were qualified for in this world and that barely, having only the equivalent of a high school diploma and work experience. They didn't even have proper citizenship. But, somehow, Fortune had favored them, just this once.

S.H.I.E.L.D. came with the same accelerated naturalization that joining the military did and also a proper salary, which was much appreciated. It had never come to the point where they had to steal, but they could hardly convert their Galleons to Muggle money. And it had stung her pride, to depend on charities, where once she'd been the kind of woman that charities came to. Hit Wizards had one of the highest salaries in the magical world and though Ron called what he did "minding the shop," the reality was that he had taken over the financial side of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes and turned it into a multinational corporation, his general affability coupled with his strategic mind making him an almost ideal leader of private enterprise.

So, though it was not that great a step up in the world, she still found some satisfaction in recognition, limited though it was. Hermione had worked long, grueling hours to earn further accolades, Harry, his mouth set grimly as he did the kind of work he'd hated most, at her side and she at his. They had faced resistance from some members of the secretarial department, generally older members whose sense of self-worth was heavily invested in the diplomas that they displayed prominently behind their desks, but also from others, who simply couldn't understand at first why they'd been hired. Though they were both nearing thirty, in appearance they looked at best to be in their early twenties, their documentation claiming that they were nineteen.

Hermione was indifferent to their dislike, because she'd faced prejudice of all kinds since she'd stepped into the magical world; Harry ignored it, because he had long ago learned to only invest himself in the opinions of people he was actually fond of.

For several months after they'd been hired on at S.H.I.E.L.D., there had been little enough progress beyond earning the trust of their superiors. Selvig was consulting with S.H.I.E.L.D. on something, but beyond watching him pace and mutter theories in front of a glowing blue cube on one of the largest ships they'd ever seen, they were none the wiser to what it was and what function it served. Hermione thought of herself as quite clever, but not even her mind could learn astrophysics in less than two years when she hadn't even been familiar with the Muggle higher sciences when they'd first been stranded on this world. But she did have a high learning curve; she understood in a general kind of way that Selvig's cube was supposed to be an energy source of some kind.

Foster had been released back into the wild and her research looked more promising-whereas before she'd couched herself in terms that were hopeful, now she sounded more certain of the reality of an Einstein-Rosen bridge. Hermione very much hoped that whatever had happened in New Mexico, the young woman would soon be able to recreate.

Then came a day when one of the agents came down the secretarial pool where Hermione and Harry worked, not nearly important or trusted enough to work directly for one of the section directors, let alone anyone higher in the hierarchy. If it weren't for their ability to Apparate within the headquarters and the fact that the Cloak meant that even heat-sensing technology couldn't discover Hermione skulking about, they would actually know very little about S.H.I.E.L.D.. Which, Hermione supposed, was the point of the compartmentalization of the agency, so that no infiltrating spy could effectively gather too much actionable information within months of entering the agency.

The agent was in conference with the head of their pool for a long time, but eventually the older man stepped out and called Harry and Hermione into the office, where he introduced the agent as Phil Coulson.

"These two?" the agent asked. Hermione thought there might be some surprise buried in his overwhelming aura of professionalism, but if it was, it was buried deep.

"They're our newest hires. And they don't have children."

Hermione brows rose at the latter statement and she felt Harry shift at her side. The implication of being chosen because they didn't have children could mean potentially anything, but Hermione would guess that it meant that whatever they were being considered for was either so classified or dangerous that they were expected not to return.

Agent Coulson looked them over once more, then cleared his throat. "Would the two of you be open to accepting a special assignment? It's long-term. You won't be able to contact your families while on location. Everything you see and hear will be strictly classified."

Harry's lips tugged upward in a faintly ironic smile. There was only their shared apartment, littered with second-hand furniture and stacks of Hermione's books. This wasn't a question so much as a foregone conclusion. They couldn't afford to let a chance to advance within the organization pass them by. Not when S.H.I.E.L.D. potentially held the keys to unlock the doors between worlds and even if they did not, they were in a far better position to track and monitor those who might bring such advances about. Not as science as most scientists researched it, but those who were able to bridge gaps in technology to create miracles such as those that Tony Stark was capable of.

-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-

Hermione couldn't seem to stop glancing down at the floor, though logically she knew it was foolish to expect it to disappear from beneath her at any moment.

"Relax, Hermione," Harry said dryly as he tamped a stack of files into order against the surface of his desk. "We aren't even flying yet."

"Why they think a giant flying target would be the best base of operations is beyond me," Hermione muttered irritably.

"It'll be invisible," Harry told her soothingly, which only earned him a scathing look.

"With something this big, they won't even need to aim. What if we have something as mundane as a mechanical failure and lose an engine? If something were to happen, all we'd have to look forward to is a plummet to our deaths," Hermione said flatly.

Harry raised an eyebrow at her pessimistic assessment of the capabilities of what was probably the most expensive aircraft ever built by the U.S. "I don't know all that much about planes, let alone this helicarrier, but I think they probably have a plan for that. And a Plan B in case that one doesn't work out."

Hermione scowled at him, but that just made him grin more widely at her. Their shared office was really not much of an office at all, but rather a widening of the corridor that terminated in Director Fury's office, a desk set in each alcove like guards flanking a checkpoint. They had been on the currently ocean-going vessel for only a few hours, but they'd yet to meet with Fury. And there wasn't exactly much paperwork to process here that was actually at their clearance level; Hermione had already read through everything that had been waiting on her desk, while Harry had shuffled through the stack of paper in his hand several times.

Harry leaned against his desk, his coat draped over the back of his chair. There was something of the typical office drone in his appearance, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hair slightly askew, the identification he had hanging around his neck on a lanyard somehow reinforcing the impression that he worked for an organization large enough that it was very possible that he wouldn't be recognized on sight.

They'd been allowed to bring personal items, if they wished, but no photos. Harry had brought the ant farm she'd bought him for the office, the workers busily mining tunnels through the illuminated green gel. Hermione was watching them from across the way, from where she sat in her own chair. Harry looked perpetually rumbled; Hermione took the opposite tact and never allowed herself to be seen as anything less than composed. Her hair was scraped into a bun of the breed cultivated by the librarians of popular imagination, her blouses all in decided neutrals.

This was what they, who'd once worn spelled Re'em leather and deep purple cloaks as their everyday uniform, had been reduced.

On her desk, her S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued tablet was the only "personal" object. Even it hadn't been particularly personal until Harry had taken it on himself to switch her screensaver to a looping video of horses in full gallop.

Harry straightened abruptly, his eyes shifting to look down the hall without moving his head. He'd learned early on that while the glamour-a spell so powerful that it was almost a transformation in itself-muffled his draconic senses, it did not do so entirely. It had been a learning process for him to not react to noises no one else could hear. But by the time Fury's footsteps became audible to Hermione, Harry had already returned to his seat, slipping on his jacket without unrolling his sleeves.

Director Fury didn't even look at them as he passed by. "You two, with me," he said sharply, arm already extended like a battering ram to open the door to his office.

Exchanging a quizzical look with Harry, they both rose and obeyed, ranging themselves between the door and Fury's desk. The man himself didn't sit. He leaned against his desk, much as Harry had been doing, arms crossed tightly across his chest. Through his one eye, he looked them over brusquely.

"What can we do for you, Director Fury?" Hermione asked when it became obvious that he wasn't going to speak.

"You were probably told you were coming here to do my paperwork," Fury said. "You aren't qualified to process anything that comes out of this office," he continued bluntly. "No, what you're here to be is glorified babysitters."

Harry blinked. "Excuse me, sir?"

"You heard me. I'll assume you watch the news. The little fuck that's been playing king of the world in Germany is on this ship. And he can use something that works a hell of a lot like magic. We _think_," he stressed the word ironically, "that he can't use it at the moment, but we're not going to put it past him to screw with the video feeds just because he can. So, ergo, we're going to put some human eyes on him and make sure they're seeing the same thing as the cameras are."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. To be quite honest, there hadn't been much to be gleaned from the news reports, which had painted this "Loki" as a more mundane kind of terrorist. The mention of magic was new and surprising and made this decision slightly more baffling. "If he can use magic, sir, shouldn't someone more...qualified be assigned to this?"

Fury smiled, but it wasn't an expression that said he thought anything about the situation was funny. "You'd think that, wouldn't you? Except Loki's already hijacked some of our best assets. The reason it'll be the two of you? You don't know any information about S.H.I.E.L.D. that will hurt us if he tricks it out of you. You don't have the clearance level necessary to get to what he wants. And even if he manages to brainwash you into his newest minions, neither of you are a threat to my agents. No combat training, no military history. You even held a gun in your life, Miss Granger?"

"No, sir," Hermione replied quietly.

Fury nodded. "See, even if Loki can play puppetmaster, we don't have any evidence to suggest that he can make his people use skills they didn't already possess. So all I really need from the two of you is two pairs of eyes on him. Take a book, play a boardgame, I don't care. You aren't to take any S.H.I.E.L.D. documents into the room with you. If he wants a boardgame, let him have it. If he wants a cappuccino, you make it. If he wants fucking _Playboy_, you get it for him. Understood? You two are the carrot and I'm the big fucking stick."

"We're humoring a terrorist, sir?" Harry asked, bottle-green eyes flashing with quickly hidden distaste.

"You are _humoring _a psychopath whose powers we don't fully understand. Several of our people suspect he's here because he's playing some sort of game. That he wants to be right where he is. It's only a matter of time until we figure out what that plan is. In the meantime, the two of you are going to watch him." He stood from where he'd been leaning and crossed behind his desk, sliding open the middle drawer. He withdrew a disk, which he flung through the air with a snap of his wrist. Harry fumbled, but managed to secure his grip before dropping it. "Take that and watch it. It's all the footage we have of Loki and all the reports our analysts have generated. It'll give you some idea of who it is you'll be dealing with. First thing tomorrow, your new job begins."

They retreated to Harry's assigned room, curling up on the narrow bunk as Harry balanced a laptop on his legs. As he slipped the disk into the drive, Hermione pulled her legs up to her chest, uncaring that she was creasing her slacks. This was unplanned and unexpected and it made her increasingly wary. Being entangled in the problems of this world hadn't seemed like it would lead them home any faster except through access to information, but all her mind could dwell on was the word _magic. _

And in this room, monitored no doubt by S.H.I.E.L.D., she couldn't talk about it with Harry. Harry's hand clasped her in a reassuring grip and their eyes met and she could read part of what he wanted to say in his eyes, but though Legilimency is one of the very few things that don't disrupt the glamour, Harry isn't good enough at the art to carry on a conversation using only thoughts and memories. A very passable Occlumens, but never a proper Legilimens would he make. Still, the reassurance she could read in his expression was enough to ease the worst of her anxiety.

The prompts appeared on the screen and Harry clicked through them. And then the videos begin to play.

Her first, overwhelming thought was that Loki was not a Wizard. What he was remained undetermined, but his first instinct didn't seem to be to counter with magic. Oh, he possessed it, but it was a horse of a different color from the kind she and Harry have. It seemed based primarily on illusion, though Hermione doesn't doubt he has skills beyond the few they see on display in the brief fight, but when he blocked one of the costumed men with what seems to be a one-trick equivalent to a wand, Hermione winced.

Very few self-respecting wizards stoop to physical combat. That is for animals and Muggles; contests of magic and the mind are the battlefield of proper wizards. But if his smooth, flowing movements are any indication, he had been trained to fight first with his body, using his illusions to augment his combat abilities rather than making them his primary mode of attack.

They watched the videos in silence, Harry's hand still holding hers, though his grip slackened after the first tension of discovery. There are more videos than she expected, but she had anticipated the numerous text files that they read through, she quicker than Harry but content to read through the paragraphs again in order to see what the analysts weren't saying. When they'd slogged through all of them, Harry opened some of the videos again and set them to play in separate windows, the sound muted."A god," he says, "voice tinged with disbelief."They think he's some kind of god from another world."

"Actually, Harry," Hermione said numbly, "they refer to him as an alien. They think Loki thinks of himself as a god."

Harry rolled her eyes at the faintly pedantic insistence, but then his eyes returned to the screen.

Hermione's brain mulled the information she'd been given, analyzing Loki just as if he was one of their targets. Some Hit Wizards didn't think motive was important, but Hermione didn't underestimate the effect of motivation on actions, on the patterns that a Hit Wizard had to be able to see in order to locate and eliminate a target. There was something very dissonant about this Loki, something beyond the description that labeled him the god of mischief and chaos in the file that had briefly summarized the relevant Norse legends.

She knew mischief. Wizards were so attached to it that one of the major industries in their world were joke shops, where the average magic-user could find the props and tools for pranks that ranged from genuinely funny to borderline malicious. George would never be quite what he once was, without his double to urge him on to ever greater pranks, but he was still one of the most talented mischief-makers she knew. Being his sister-in-law hadn't spared her from his pranks. If anything, it only seemed to encourage him, as she was one of the few people able to turn his spells and charms against him on occasion.

It was also one of their most frequent criminal acts, Wizards who enchanted the everyday items of Muggles or used their magic to bamboozle them in other ways, enjoying their fear and bemusement. And some of them, their terror.

This wasn't mischief, on the whole, though as she watched the way he was taken, she knew that Fury was right when he said that Loki was on this ship because he wanted to be. But there was a manic intensity about him in other moments that was at odds with the level of emotional control necessary for both a really good prankster and a liar. And it was too raw, too frantic, to be completely a lie. He hadn't looked like someone in control when he'd stepped from wherever he'd come. He'd looked worn, faintly deranged, like the Death Eaters who'd escaped Azkaban during the war.

And some of the things he'd said.

"I am Loki of Asgard," she murmured aloud, "And I am burdened with glorious purpose. There's something odd about that, Harry."

"Yes," Harry agreed with a snort. "He said it where people could _hear _him. How does he expect people to take him seriously as a villain? I mean, if I'd stood up in front of a group of people and shouted, 'I am Harry Potter and I am burdened with glorious prophecy' they would've taken me to have my mind looked at, if I hadn't died of the shame first."

Hermione's eyes flickered to where she suspected the cameras were, but she knew that his statement was harmless without any context. "Not that, Harry. Think of what he's saying, not where and how he's saying it. Take away the staging. What he's saying aren't the words of someone who wants to control the world simply because he wants it. They're the words of a visionary, Harry. Parse it down."

"Loki 'of Asgard.' He's associating himself with something larger, which isn't the behavior pattern of would-be conquers or men who suppose themselves to be gods. Even though his name might mean something to the people he's speaking to because he happened to be in Germany, his name alone would have sufficed. Hypothetically, if Zeus were to appear before Greeks, he wouldn't introduce himself as Zeus of Olympus. He would simply be Zeus and suppose himself known and feared, because that's what it would mean to be a god. Does he want to imply he has the support of Asgard or that he is here on Asgard's behalf? Because that's what might be inferred, but if he's alerady identifying himself as a denizen of Asgard, why not also indentify himself as its prince in that case?"

"And 'burdened' implies that this 'purpose' was given by someone he considers above himself. A liege or master, someone he didn't have the option of refusing. Harry, they say he considers himself a god. Who could compel a god to do something?"


	5. Standing Within the Fraunhofer Lines I

A/N:So, here is my apology for the errors that have littered this manuscript thus far. I'm doing something somewhat novel for me; the chapters you've been reading have all been written on the day you're reading them. As soon as one chapter is finished, it is posted and I move on to the next. This is because I know myself exceptionally well. Rather than start another project only to update haphazardly, I'm going to write on this until I'm sick of it. So, please bear with me, but feel free to point out mistakes-I generally go back and fix at least some of them within minutes of reading your comments. Unless it's the pervasive verb tense shifts; this wants to be written in present tense, but most people find that reading fiction in past tense is preferable.

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Five-

Standing Within the Fraunhofer Lines (Part I)

Every morning on first waking, Hermione reached beneath her pillow to withdraw a slim, somewhat tattered journal. Rolling onto her stomach, she fumbled for a pen on the nightstand and then thumbed to page where she'd made her last entry. Each was numbered-now over seven hundred of them, each only a few sentences long. She wasn't worried about it being confiscated; it had been charmed so that anyone else who read it saw only a day planner of sorts. For, within these pages, she kept the little pieces that had once formed the picture of her life.

_For our anniversary,_ she wrote_, R. bought me a silverwork goblin-made bracelet with protective wards. It would save my life three months later, but it was shattered in the process. When I tried to apologize, after I'd been cleared to leave St. M.'s, he took my hand, reached into his pocket and then clasped another bracelet on my wrist. He told me he would buy me as many of them as I needed, so long as I always came back to him. _

Her lips trembled a little at the memory, but her control soon reasserted itself and she closed the journal, tucking it back under her pillow. Her bed was no longer made with Shipley's Self-Sufficient Sheets (which were guaranteed to wash themselves, air themselves, and make the bed when you rose in the morning), so she did it by hand, then commenced with the rest of her morning routine with an air of anticipation that had lately been lacking.

This meeting was more important than it had first appeared. Whoever had compiled the information on Loki had obviously been in no mood to help them draw conclusions about the artifact that he'd stolen. When she'd first watched Loki appear by way of the Tessaract-path, she'd assumed he'd traveled from a distant point on Earth. For Muggles, that would certainly be magical enough, and she could see a clear military use for such a power.

But as she read over the files more carefully, she began to realize that when they referred to him as an alien, they meant it quite literally. It had been very difficult not to immediately point out the implication of this to Harry. The Tessaract was potentially the key to open their path home.

Hermione didn't doubt that if she and Harry sat their minds to the chase, they could find it more quickly than SHIELD. But the artifact was apparently important to this world and Hermione wasn't quite ready to risk transferring a device capable of creating bridges across dimensions to her own world. Providing that actually taking it through the path didn't have any unintended side-effects, it would quickly become another burden that she and Harry would have to protect lest any dark wizards decide to turn their avarice beyond their own world. That was a disaster she would not take responsibility for.

And, given their two current options, she would rather it be left with SHIELD. She was fairly certain that when the time came to use the device, she and Harry would be able to circumvent the security easily enough. So she would be patient, even though each day that passed was another that Ron lived with the belief that she was dead.

Each day would make it harder for him, when she did come back. Because while she knew that he loved her very deeply, she wouldn't have wanted him to grieve forever if she'd been truly dead. And having moved on, what kind of emotion would be at work if she effectively rose from the grave, not just as the Hermione who'd been by his side through so many adventures, but also the Hermione that Smelt had made her. The Hermione who would potentially have to live out her life wearing the Red Hands, though she had, after meticulously combing through her library, finally found mention of how to make their magic dormant.

She flexed her fingers as she contemplated this, knowing that beneath the illusion was the reason that she had to type with her fingers curled up so that the tips of the gauntlets hit the keys straight on, much as Harry had to do. Checking her watch, Hermione tried to decide what she could take to distract herself, lest her unrelenting need to know take her down a path she wasn't prepared to brave. For almost two years in this world had convinced her that while this world's technology might have advanced further than in her own-perhaps to counter-balance the lack of magic-the Muggle's social consciousness had not had any such miraculous advance. They still remained fearful of what they did not know and preferred to destroy what they could not control.

She did not fully blame them for the impulse. She couldn't imagine facing the world without magic and the increased physical durability that came with wielding it. Quidditch was a sport that would kill Muggles rather than simply resulting in broken bones.

Making a quick decision aided in part by the fact that she hadn't packed a great many things, Hermione gathered what she needed and struck out for the location that had been sent in a secure e-mail this morning. She hesitated when she saw Director Fury leaning against one of the doors she needed to pass through. He had the same kind of imposing physical presence that Minister Kingsley did.

Though he was far more abrupt. "Miss Granger. Heard your conversation with Mr. Potter last night."

"Sir?" she asked carefully.

"It's an interesting thought, Miss Granger. If he really does have someone behind him, SHIELD wants to know. But color me a little surprised. Our analysts were pretty interested in your line of reasoning."

"I read rather a lot of mystery books," Hermione murmured demurely. It was the truth, for what it was worth, though the fact that they were nonfiction works on magical crime and occasionally biographies on the famous Aurors and Hit Wizards of the modern age-only published once they had quit the field entirely-was irrelevant. "I suppose after a certain point you pick up on the line of thinking."

"Uh-huh." Director Fury didn't sound entirely convinced, but Hermione wasn't certain it was because he didn't believe her. From the few encounters they've had, she'd guess he was habitually unconvinced of anything and everything. Given that he does manage SHIELD, she'd label it an occupational hazard. "Well, if you feel the need to go all Nancy Drew on Loki's ass, you've got a green light."

With that he pushed himself away from wall and stalked away, leather snapping sharply around his legs.

Hermione waited until he'd turned the corner of corridor before proceeding. She hadn't yet seen Harry, but that wasn't unusual. Her anxious punctuality had never been his tact. After what seemed innumerable doors, she finally reached a point where two live agents stopped her. "Miss Granger?" It was a woman, shaped in the same mold as the rest of the agents, all of whom seem to have been chosen primarily for their ability to wear the skintight leather uniform without looking ridiculous.

"Yes?" Hermione asked.

"I'm Agent Silvestri. My partner and I will be your liaisons. You've already been made aware that after interacting with the prisoner, you will only be allowed to speak with your handlers, by secure communication to Director Fury, and will only take meals in the room that's been set aside for the purpose at specified times?"

Hermione nodded, wondering briefly if the mind control practiced by this Loki could be carried from person to person like some sort of contaminant. They were certainly putting measures in place that resembled what would be done if they suspected a strong enough Imperius Curse that it would cause the afflicted to cast the curse on others, thereby expanding the problem by magnitudes. That certainly hadn't been in the reports she'd been allowed access to, but she hoped to attribute it to official paranoia rather than having any basis in reality.

The agent gestured with her hand to what seemed like a tiny kitchenette squashed into one widened alcove, the opposite side being occupied by security equipment. It seemed that SHIELD had a predilection for choke-point hallways leading to secure areas. "We've stocked this with the usual. Coffee, tea, soda, some basic snacks. The rest room you'll be allowed to use is just down the hall. If you need something for the prisoner that you don't know how to locate yourself, feel free to come out and ask. You won't be provided any communication equipment within the room itself. You'll be searched and what you're bringing in will be inventoried. Same process when you come out, if you intend to leave this hallway."

"I understand," Hermione said.

Once through the security, Hermione paused in front of the door, taking a deep breath. She wasn't afraid of this Loki, per se. She'd faced too many madmen with access to magic in her life for that. But she'd seen that distinctive smugness when he'd been taken in to custody. If he slipped through SHIELD's fingers, it would take that much longer for the Muggles to recover the Tessaract.

The door hissed as it opened, indicating an air lock. The man in the glass cage in the center of the room looked up as she stepped through. "Ah," he said with feigned satisfaction. "Seems like they've sent another insect to buzz in my ear."

Hermione's eyes narrowed and she approached the cage, sitting her bag down by the fold-out table and chairs that she supposed was meant for Harry and her. "I'm Hermione Granger. I afraid I wasn't briefed on how you prefer to be addressed, so you'll pardon my presumption if I call you by your first name. I'm here to make your stay with us more comfortable."

Dark brows rose at that. He had an expressive, mobile face; she thought critically that it was probably his most attractive feature. "Is that so?" he asked smoothly. "All by yourself? Are you to be the virgin sacrifice to the monster?"

At that moment, the door hissed open again and Hermione stepped back and turned partially so that she could see who had entered without fully taking her eyes off the man in the tank.

Harry stepped through the door, his arms full to overflowing with things, most of which he dumped on the top of the table. "Morning, Hermione," he greeted as he approached. He placed the last item on the floor before the tank with a flourish, amusement tugging his lips to one side as he straightened.

"And what is that?" Loki asked, disdain creeping in around the edges.

"Ant farm," Harry answered cheekily. "I heard you had a thing for ants."

Her hand moved before she'd even thought it through, clipping Harry upside the head. His grin didn't change. "If he can't appreciate the irony, he doesn't deserve his reputation."

Loki's smile hadn't faltered either, but behind his gaze, something unpleasant simmered. _He doesn't appreciate being mocked_, she noted. Odd, for someone whose defining characteristic was supposed to be his sense of humor. But there was little that wasn't odd about this situation. And Fury had given her permission to indulge her curiosity.

"And you are?" Loki asked.

"Hermione's more charming half," Harry answered promptly. "Your other minder. Harry Potter. I'd say it was a pleasure, but I don't think that was the impression you were going for. Else there's a really insurmountable cultural misunderstanding and mass murder is how you say hello wherever you come from. Asgard, right?"

"Yes," Loki replied. "I do come from Asgard. I suppose they showed you the video?"

"Yeah." Harry's grin turned full-fledged, but at least he didn't repeat his comment of the night before. "So, can we get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Mental help?"

Loki's brows rose again, then fell into a more comfortable line. "You think yourself quite clever, don't you?"

"They already told us to expect that you'd fuck with us. I'm just returning the favor before you reduce me to pile of sobbing manflesh."

It was Hermione's turn to be incredulous, mouthing the word 'manflesh.' She intervened before Harry's interrogation technique-better labeled prisoner baiting-could make Loki turn hostile. Everyone had a flashpoint and with Loki's unpredictability, there was no telling what might make him actively interested in making their assignment miserable. "Is there anything you need, Loki?"

He turned his attention to her and his smile turned charming. "Not at the moment, Miss Granger."

Hermione nodded and returned to the table, eyeing the assortment that Harry had brought. Harry followed her after one last glance at Loki.

-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-

There was very little to amuse oneself with in a barren cage of reinforced glass, no matter that the very thought of his presence was doubtless irking mortals on this ship. Seeing the results of his mischief was more satisfying than simply knowing that it had indeed caused someone somewhere inconvenience.

He glanced down at the peculiar little container that the boy had left on the floor in front of his prison. Ants, just as he had said, busily carrying on their life cycle in viscous green medium. His thoughts trailed to his two 'minders,' the hapless mortals that Fury had set to keep watch upon him.

They set between he and the only door, at a spindly table playing some sort of board game. He was far more culturally fluent than his brother, but his curiosity had extended only to things useful to him. Games were not among them. It appeared similar in execution to Hnefatafl, but he was more interested in their expressions and interactions than in their play.

The first to introduce herself was little more than a child, much like the boy. Well, all mortals were little more than short-lived children, but these were younger than most he'd seen among their SHIELD. She tried to compensate for that by an attitude of severity that extended to both her clothing and mannerisms. But her eyes had watched him with an odd expression, given what chaos he'd wrecked upon their realm. They had communicated not fear nor loathing, but something he'd seen best expressed in the eyes of Midgard's scientists. The need to break him down for study, as if he were simply a particularly unstable compound.

He could use that interest, if he so chose. Those led by their curiosity were ofttimes those easiest to lead astray.

As for the other-well, if he was less proficient at reading expressions, he'd say his behavior was nothing more than empty bravado. He certainly didn't look capable of taking on an Asgardian child in combat, let alone someone of Loki's caliber, but this place was a nest of lies, all tangled together. Perhaps he put his seeming harmlessness to use for Fury, pilfering secrets from the unwary. But Loki expected deception; he liked to pretend he'd invented it.

Harry Potter's eyes had met his steadily, as if he thought himself his equal. Which was foolishness to the highest degree. But it did promise to make his time here more interesting.

A noise outside the tank drew his attention. Harry groaned and slumped forward across the table. "I liked it better when you were terrible at chess."

"It's not so much that I'm good at chess, Harry, than that you always play the same debuts and always try to implement the same plans after that. After a while I simply looked up how to properly counter them."

Harry tilted his head so that he could scowl at her better. "It's because chess is limiting," he complained, pressing his finger down upon the head of one of the pieces. A knight. "What if I secured funding for my weapons development project and mounted my knights on fighter jets? That should at least give me the mobility of a queen."

"I think you're quite missing the point of the game," Hermione said dryly.

"Yeah, yeah. Game of kings and all that." He straightened and looked to Loki. "Do you play chess?"

"I'm afraid I don't," Loki demurred. "Besides, it would seem quite inconvenient, me being on this side of the glass."

Harry shrugged off his objection. "People play by correspondence all the time." Then his expression changed, a slight thing. "Can I ask you a question?"

"I hardly see how I could stop you."

Harry looked unconvinced, but it didn't seem to deter him unduly. "You made like you wanted to become the god of this world."

"That is not a question," Loki observed.

"No, it isn't. But you like analogies, right? Boots and ants and all that. And that wasn't my question. Let's pretend that life works like chess. Every piece has a predefined role and that role limits how it can move." He rocked his finger on the knight's piece and it toppled over. "We'll equate gods with kings," he said, moving his finger to a different piece, this one topped by a crude representation of the kinds of crowns that Muggles favored. "In chess, the god-king is the most important piece. The game ends when it's taken, even if you have every other piece left on the board. I have a friend who is very, very good at chess. And he says that the only time that you use this piece combatively is when you're sure there's no way to lose. So, here's my question. Are you that confident? Or are you a different piece entirely?"

A/N: I had a little aid this chapter from reviewer Zealot of Reading with making Hermione sound clever at chess-the credit for making Hermione use the correct terms and most of her comeback belongs to said reviewer.

Part of the attraction of Loki is that I don't have a clue what he's thinking half the time. However, that makes a very poor basis on which to write someone's POV. So, if you have pointers and suggestions, feel free to express them. And, yes, I'm leaning towards the betrayed child and mischief-maker rather than mass-murdering megalomaniac; it's very hard to extract redeemability from the latter. The whole 'god of evil' thing seems to be a later addition anyway; most pagan pantheons had gods that portrayed aspects of the natural world rather than being grouped so definitively into the dualism embraced by Judaism. Also, Harry's POV? Would you like to see it? Next chapter continues the battle of wits. Which is much more interesting if no one gets to use their powers.


	6. Standing Within the Fraunhofer Lines II

A/N: The cover art for this is a photograph from The Metropolitan Museum of Art's collection, specifically of a shaffron and crinet from the wrong period and country to be directly related to this fic, but I liked the shape and look of it. If you want to see it in more detail, go to the metmuseum website. Also, officially decided that Loki's theme song for this fic is Mumford and Son's 'The Enemy'. Harry and Hermione's song is AWOLNATION's 'Kill Your Heroes.'

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Six-

Standing Within the Fraunhofer Lines (Part II)

Loki felt his expression slip, but it was so slight and so quickly corrected that mortal eyes would never notice. He had a ready answer, though he hadn't been prepared for that conversational gambit. "That is because your mortal kings are unconscionably fragile. On Asgard, a king leads in the thick of the battle. It is simply another of the matters that need corrected upon your realm."

Harry relaxed into his chair, toppling the black king with a casual twist of his fingers. He hummed thoughtfully. "It was just a thought."

"Thoughts can be dangerous things."

Harry shrugged, narrow shoulders sliding beneath wrinkled fabric. It was one of the vaguest gestures that mortals practiced, open to interpretation. Very few of the æsir practiced such subtlety, being far more decided in their answers. Loki wondered if the mortal did so because he had no good answer for Loki. That was part of the beauty of his campaign.

Buried within the theatrics and fear-mongering, there was truth in what he said and the mortals felt that truth resonate deep in their souls. They were their own worst enemies. If they were capable of any remarkable degree of cooperation, their native ingenuity might have made them the equal of the æsir, but they lapsed with almost frightening thoroughness into the barbarism of their own past. For every great and fine civilization they raised, they let it stagnate and be swallowed whole by other mortals whose only advantage was a hunger for the material wealth they possessed and perhaps a strength and recklessness of arms that the sedentary population couldn't be bothered to rally themselves properly against.

Frankly, he was surprised that the slave religion that had been adopted by the greater part of the world had allowed the sciences to progress as far as they had, for the last time he'd been apt to wander about on Midgard, any sort of original thought at all had been enough to see said mortal slaughtered for heresy.

"What would make you think that I was anything less than a king?" he asked with a hint of acid behind his usual veneer of civility. Though this was not a plan had not originated with him, the implementation had been his own and there should have been no room for the mortals to doubt him. Any æsir was so much removed from their state that it was only reasonable that they look upon them as gods. "Or a god?" he asked, giving voice to the thought.

"Me? To me, it doesn't really seem to matter, does it? What you are. Not after what you've done and what SHIELD thinks you're trying to do. You've only given us two choices. To kneel. Or to not kneel. There's a lot of people who'll cower beneath their beds until the monster either is slain or eats them up, but for the rest of us, you're making us choose sides. And, unfortunately enough for you, no one profits from your little deal. For us good guys, anything that deprives people of their free will is evil. And for villains? You're asking men who themselves feel like kings to submit to an overlord, whose platform is that he'll rid the world of the chaos that allows them to control it. And as far as anyone can tell, you're just human on a different scale; you'll die the same as anyone else. And even if you were a king, those can be overthrown. And as for gods, well, don't the stories say that you can be killed?" There was nothing friendly in his eyes as he made the threat, though the faint smile remained on his face.

"That's a dangerous assumption to make, placing your faith in the stories of your own kind, when hardly any of you believed that held even the faintest hint of truth before I made myself known to you. I would be interested in how you intend to achieve such a goal, killing a god, but I think any scenarios that I dream of would be far more diverting than your approach. You are all such terribly linear thinkers." He found himself stepping nearer the glass, hands crossed casually behind his back. "Tell me, Mr. Potter, what is it you do for SHIELD?"

"Secretary." The humor filtered back into his eyes, the faint creases of the laugh lines in his skin tracing where age would later etch them deep. "You think Director Fury would actually put someone valuable within your reach?"

"You have quite the free tongue for a someone in such a lowly position," he observed. "Does Miss Granger agree with your erroneous opinion?"

"Hermione reads too much," Harry said quite seriously. His partner frowned at him, but it was founded in fondness, much as Frigga looked at Thor when he'd done something especially stupid. Loki had noticed it before, but somehow this reinforced their closeness. They did not interact so much as react to each other, each seeming to sense the response of the other before the action was actually taken.

Harry continued speaking as Loki mulled over the impact that this unexpected level of trust would have on any manipulation he might attempt in order to divert himself while he waited on his plans to ferment to perfection. "She's accustomed to looking at details, choosing to think that word choice is either deliberate or at least revealing, and thinking that everything ought to tie into an overarching plot. Of course, that sets her up for disappointment in real life, but she can't help herself. And she thinks that there's something a little off with your script, like there's some character we haven't met yet. That if you're a king, it's only on a chessboard and there's someone else playing the game. "

-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-

Harry shifted Loki's attention to Hermione intentionally, aware that she'd probably found other evidence in hindsight to support her theory. But when his eyes-celadon blue-green like Hermione's battered mugs and more than faintly mocking-turned on Hermione, it was a struggle not to separate his head from his body using nothing more than his teeth.

He knew it was in part a reaction to a genuine threat to Hermione that he would have reacted to before Smelt, in part a reminder that he was no longer the Hit Wizard who didn't have to struggle with foreign instincts pervading his psyche. The Dragon was how he thought of it, because even though he had lived with it day in and day out for almost two years, Harry wasn't prepared to accept it as part of himself.

The Dragon skewed concepts he'd thought quite simple before they'd come to this world. Friendship, loyalty, trust, each of these had been things he'd thought he had understood. But The Dragon had proved him wrong, because each of these was burned more deeply into his mind than they had ever been. Perhaps because this was what he'd considered precious, The Dragon's bone-deep hoard instinct had transformed into an all-consuming obsession.

Through the slitted pupils of The Dragon's eyes, Hermione wasn't merely a friend. She was a treasure, a jewel, not to be unsettled or sullied by the small one smiling at her through the glass. She was kin of his heart, someone who ought to be sheltered beneath his wings. It was not that The Dragon thought of her as lesser-she would have never been regarded as kith elsewise-but that The Dragon saw no reason to not simply rid themselves of the danger. It was this quickness to action and directness that made dragons an enemy possible to combat.

The glamour almost burned, where it was layered over his skin, the magic stretched so taut with what it concealed that anything beyond the mind-magic of Legilimancy or Occlumancy might break it. He shifted his hands idly, flexing them as Hermione silently studied her opponent, knowing the tendons that now ran beneath partially scaled skin were strong enough to crush a human skull. He'd seen it once, in Bulgaria, where a cocky young wizard, in his first year of Bulgaria's equivalent to the Aurors, had thought he could capture an immature displaced Ridgeback that had been muzzled by himself.

They'd arrived too late to the scene to see anything but fluids forced by the pressure making a dramatic exit through any orifice or breach they could find. Like a pumpkin being smashed. It was a memorable scene and The Dragon entertained the thought of discovering whether the bones of gods were stronger than those of mortal men.

"Well?" Loki prompted, when it didn't appear Hermione was going to begin the conversation. "I am waiting."

"You claim to be a god. You have nothing but time," Hermione said, voice not quite to the point of being cutting, but it was purely the Hermione whose color-coded schedule had ruled an entire squad of Hit Wizards for almost a decade. _When you're on Ministry hours, your time belongs to me. _He could recall the threat vividly, because she'd used it on every new recruit that passed through their squad until she was certain that the young witches and wizards, full of themselves after being accepting into one of the most dangerous and highly regarded professions in the Ministry, could and would submit all required paperwork on time and that they were never, ever late to a rendezvous.

He'd been team leader, but Hermione had kept order in the ranks. If she'd been naturally bossy at school, the Ministry had encouraged her to develop that until it had become a complement to her intelligence, rather than a social stumbling block. It had worked because their dynamic encouraged their squad members to come to Harry for companionable advice, while Hermione had become their trusted source for protocol and information.

Loki seemed to be re-evaluating Hermione and was silent for a time. Then, "Surely, Miss Granger, you see the advantage of pressing me for answers while I'm still aghast at your suggestion."

Hermione tilted her head to one side, then pushed away from the rickety table, which caused a few more of the chessmen to topple. Harry had to snatch a falling pawn before it struck the floor.

She did not block Harry's line of sight and she stopped short of the bridge that led to the only entrance to the cell, but her stance was clearly one of verbal confrontation. "Who are you, Loki?"

His eyebrows shot upwards at the question. "I thought you'd seen the videos. I am Loki of Asgard." His voice strikes oddly on the syllables of his own name, as if he thinks to imbue it with special meaning.

"And one, Loki, fair of face, ill of temper and fickle of mood. Yes, I know," Hermione answered snappishly. "You made quite the impression, once."

"Did I?" He is not as flattered by the description as Harry expected, but then he caught that Hermione had very intentionally implied that his past actions far overshadowed his present ones, as if his bid for world domination was somehow lesser than old stories of long-ago tricks and boasts.

"There's no telling what is distortion, what is hyperbole, and what is outright lie concerning you," Hermione continued undeterred, "but no matter what the source, once thing was consistent."

"Oh, this I _must _hear," he purred sulkily. He raised his hands dramatically. "Come then, regale me with your tale. But know that I'm not the kind of god impressed when mortals do tricks like trained hounds."

He could almost feel Hermione's satisfaction. She found it satisfying when people asked for exactly what she was willing to provide, especially when she was all but delivering them their own destruction. She still regarded delivering Umbridge to the centaurs one of her major coups. "You're unpredictable."

"And taking over the world is not unpredictable?"

Harry scoffed and both Loki and Hermione turned to look at him. "If there was something more predictable you could have done, I can't think of it."

"Harry," Hermione said in her sternest _I disapprove of your shenanigans _voice. But if they'd been keeping a tally, he could think of a half-dozen wizards and witches who'd made the conquest of the world their life's ambition. Admittedly, few had made such an impact as Loki, but that was partially because Muggle media was far more pervasive and quickly updated. Most of wizarding kind was kept unaware of how often those who entertained delusions of Dark Lordship arose. Generally they were too ineffective to be a real threat, but they did exist and were dealt with in short order.

"Please overlook Harry," Hermione irritably apologized. "As I was saying, your one hallmark is unpredictability. Chaos is your lifeblood; your whole existence is centered around being cleverer than any other guest at the feast."

"I assume you're making a point," Loki said, "Or is this supposed to be flattery?"

"If you're a god, it's of mischief, manipulation, and lies. If anything, you embrace all the most chaotic elements that free will brings. You should revel in our wars, rejoice in our betrayals, write sagas of our foolishness, Loki Backbiter. You _don't,_" she said sharply, "offer to bring us peace, because our free will unsettles our hearts."

She was suddenly a chimera, no part of her not viable as a weapon, her whole _being _in motion though her body remained still. Harry almost felt a little sorry for the being who couldn't escape the venom of her well-directed fangs. Anyone with sense feared Hermione Granger, just a little, because she was genuinely one of the people who could walk into any room in their world and expect to be the cleverest one in it. It wasn't simply an intellectual kind of cleverness either, helpless in the face of real violence.

"Is not this simple?" she said, the words clipped and harsh. "Is not this your natural state? It's the unspoken truth of humanity, that you crave subjugation. The bright lure of freedom diminishes your life's joy in a mad scramble for power, for identity. You were made to be ruled. In the end, you will always kneel."

She paused. "Is not this simple? Is this not your natural state? It's the unspoken truth of Loki, that you crave subjugation, because that at least would be belonging, if your troubled heart could only decide where your loyalty ought to lie. The bright lure of freedom diminishes your life's joy in a mad scramble for power, for identity. You were made to be ruled, as all the sons of kings are when their fathers are effectively immortal, but the question is, who made you kneel? Who crushed the chaos from your heart? Who gave you purpose, Loki, who was given to be a wolf in holy places*, yet who claims still to be a son of Asgard?"

Loki smashed his palms against the glass hard enough to have shattered either glass or his hands, had either been more mundane. "Be silent!" he roared. But he couldn't touch Hermione and nothing less would break her concentration.

"Your brother gave SHIELD testimony, I suspect in an effort to give us-humanity-perspective, to encourage leniency. And we had information from the New Mexico incident. I'm not interested in lancing the boils of your past, Loki. I'm not interested in your pain for its own sake, but when you announce to the world you intend to conquer it at the head of an alien army, you make all that should be kept sacred null and void."

"Why not just grind us under heel if we are just ants? Why take away our will?" Her voice dropped to a whisper, low, carrying, intimate. "What sort of god wants to rule over ants? After all, don't they say that kings seek realms worthy of them? Is that all you're worthy of, ruling over ants? Why would you think that, when you once sat on the golden throne of Asgard. When you were so unsatisfied with being thought second best to your brother that you sacrificed everything that once had meant something to you in order to bring the crown into your own hands. When you'd once made gods kneel. Why control their minds, Loki?"

"Only a man who is a slave to something else can enslave another. Fear, pride, money, they're all the kind of masters that can drive one man to disregard the rights of another. But you're your own master. Or at least you were. At least as much as any being can be. But then something happened. Something drastic enough to cause a radical behavioral shift. And then you target the one thing you yourself hold most precious."

"What does such a man crave, Harry, one who despised the order of the Realm Eternal, who broke the mold of golden warriors in favor of a woman's magic and a trickster's tongue?" She didn't give Harry time to answer. "Free agency. Is that what you were told? Or is that what you believe, that when you're Earth's master, you'll hold enough power in your hands to free yourself?"

"Don't be a fool," Hermione said, "You're entirely too clever for that."

A/N: ...the dialogue. Geh. Welcome, Hermione's lawyer-self. Luckily, there will more action next chapter. In a lot of ways, I don't think that I'm making Hermione particularly insightful. Some of these questions really ought to have been asked by this uber-spy agency. SHIELD needs the equivalent of a Criminal Minds division.

It was very tempting to call Harry's dragon-self Fafnir. Which might make Hermione Otr, which would be ironic considering her Patronus. And then I'd mess with your expectations, because Loki kills Otr in the saga, before Fafnir became a dragon, but then I realized that it would only be useful if more of my audience rather than less had read the _Volsunga Saga_. So, plan derailed. The quote Hermione uses against Loki comes from the introduction of my copy, which was translated by Eirikr Magnusson and William Morris. There won't be much myth!Loki to be seen, but it was really such a fitting description that I couldn't resist. It's like the title-you might know who Svadilfari is, but it's funnier if you realize the name actually means 'unlucky traveler,' which pretty much describes Harry and Hermione's situation.

And this fic will go through the events of Thor 2, so don't expect full reveal anytime soon. Of course, SHIELD will have their own suspicions. How much interaction do you want to see with the rest of the Avenger team?

*exiled, banished, put out of society. Incredibly antiquated, but it sort of fit in the vein of dramatic speeches.


	7. Collimation and Cacophony

A/N: Thanks to everyone who's been reading this story! Your reviews are wonderful motivation to keep up the current momentum. So, here again is another release. It seems I lied about the action, because I have to go in to work early, so this chapter is shorter than I'd like it to be. Still, considering that Loki is on the ship for a whole seven minutes in the movie, I don't think it will be long before he makes his escape.

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Seven-

Collimation and Cacophony

"You know nothing! I will pull your entrails out your spiteful mouth, you pretentious child!" Loki roared, throwing himself almost bodily against the glass. When it held, Loki subsided, but it was the retreat of a wolf, eyes bright with the surety of violence if he saw opportunity.

Harry laid his hand very purposefully flat on the table, knowing the if he clenched his hand in anger, he'd likely dig very-difficult to explain furrows in the cheap tabletop. The mantra _breathe _was no longer applicable, because he was perfectly capable of exhaling flame. So instead, he focused on Ginny, the smell and taste of her, of all that he stood to lose if he wasn't capable of controlling The Dragon. No matter that Hermione mightn't tell if he turned this world to ashes, provided they had reason enough, he would never be able to face Ginny with that on his conscience.

She deserved a better man than that. And now that his humanity was so uncertain, it was more important than ever before that he live up to the ideals that Ginny earnestly associated with him. Hermione had broached the subject with him once, when they'd still be discovering artifacts hidden in her flesh and guessing at their names. Harry was a human soul in a dragon's body, it was his human-self that was the transfiguration now, one which he doubted he'd ever be strong enough to accomplish completely. There was too much of the dragon's magic. Too much of its memory and strength.

And those instincts drove him to stand slowly. Loki's eyes flickered over to him and, as if reminded that more people, more eyes existed then those of himself and Hermione, he mastered himself. Harry distrusted his hot, wrathful anger. Ron was the kind of man whose anger burned hot and furious. Loki was not. He was a creature of quicksilver moods, of deep-running jealousies like underground streams, invisible until the ground caved in beneath one's feet.

The Dragon's senses were less than useful when judging emotion. It wasn't a domestic dog; it was a beast that preyed on things such as humans. Only rank fear really registered. Even though the barrier of the glass distorted it, he could sense Loki's fear-whatever or whomever it was that had given him his 'purpose,' it was something really terrible. But beyond that, he was opaque glass.

But Loki, he'd sensed, was like Hermione. Control was everything. There was no room for empty threats. Amplified by a thousand years and skewed by an alien culture he didn't fully understand, he could only imagine what sort of impossible conditions would have to be met for Loki to reveal real vulnerability.

Hermione was very good, nigh unnerving. When she made use of Legilimancy, she approached being someone who could command the same level of fear that Professor Snape once had.

But blind faith alone wasn't what she required of him. She needed a partner, ready to meet her when her plans needed a little brute force to be accomplished.

He might exist in chains at present, but he could still stand at her side.

"Usually criminals resort to threats," he said steadily, "when they don't have anything else to say. What's the matter, Loki?"

Loki looked at him narrowly, then his lips eased into a grin. "Oh, my apologies, did I frighten you? Such a _masterful _twisting of words. I couldn't help but play along. I think you've chosen the wrong profession, Miss Granger."

Hermione shrugged modestly, her earlier vigor cooling as she retreated with grace, her point scored. Both of them had been trained to think not just in battles but campaigns. "You are welcome to your opinion."

"I must admit, that certainly rivaled the stories told at the great feast tables of Asgard when everyone is already deep in their mead. How _did_ you dream up such a tale?"

"You," Hermione said, meeting his eyes one last time before turning to return to the table. "To me, it seemed as if you were all but screaming."

-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-

"Director Fury wants you to report to his office," the Agent, whose name she'd quite forgotten, told her as she and Harry were subjected to their exit search.

Hermione exchanged a glance with Harry, reading in the tightness around his eyes that he shared her sentiment that after a day of verbal jousting with Loki, the very last thing she wanted to do was present herself to Director Fury for what promised to be an uncomfortable conversation. She'd lost herself a bit that morning, shed a little of her Muggle-ness, reveling in the aspect of herself that delighted in uncovering secrets.

But any attempt to escape would be as good as an admission of guilt, much as she felt that Loki's avoidance of the question of his own agency was as good as a confirmation.

So she nodded. Gathered her things. Did as she was told. She and Harry left the items they'd brought to amuse themselves at their desk, then Harry knocked on the door.

"It's unlocked," Fury's strident voice said, carrying quite clearly.

"So," he said, steepling his hands as they closed the door behind them. "I'd like to say good work today in there. But that would imply that I was prepared for, not Nancy Drew, but Patty Hewes. I didn't realize I had a shark with psychology degree working down in Admin. You smelled blood in the water and _boom_," he emphasized the word with a sharp gesture of his hands. "Very nice."

It wasn't meant to be a compliment. "Tell me," he said, his single eye fixed on them both, "where do a couple kids who didn't even graduate high school pick up interrogation techniques like that? Going to tell me you watch a lot of TV? Read too many novels? Maybe your mother was a lawyer? Come on. You can at least put in as much effort in convincing me as you did in convincing _him._"

Hermione replied, trying to keep the wariness from her voice. "There's nothing that I can say, sir. Except that my mother wasn't a lawyer, but she was a fan of Cicero."

"Cicero. It wasn't a dead Roman in that room today. But I guess you two are in luck. Because at this moment, I don't really have the liberty to grill your asses like you deserve. If you're not planning on fucking us over, I really don't give a damn where your skills come from. But if you are, just know that _I'm _the kind of guy who always gets the last laugh. Do anything to compromise our mission or the safety of the United States and I'll make you _bleed. _Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Hermione and Harry replied.

"Good. Then we're all friends here. And speaking of friends, there's someone who wants to meet you."

"Who?" Harry asked.

"Loki's older brother." He flicked his hand in dismissal. "He'll be waiting in conference room one."

Hermione hesitated to follow Harry through the door. "Has he...seen the video?" she asked.

"Yeah. He has."

"Is he...fond of Loki?"

"Crossed dimensions to stop him. I'd say he finds him fairly tolerable. Also, why you're at it, take a break around noon tomorrow. We want to give a _real_ spy a chance to speak to our resident pain in the ass."

Hermione cursed softly in her head, but drew her professionalism tight around her, as she might the Cloak.

They had to ask for directions twice in the convoluted halls before they found themselves facing the unmarked door that led to the conference room. Hermione shared one last look with Harry and his eyes promised courage should hers fail her, so she slid the door open and stepped inside.

She almost stepped backwards into Harry's chest as a rather _large _blond man surged to his feet. _Merlin's balls, _Hermione thought vaguely, _I didn't think giant blood ran in the family, but I could have been convinced if I'd met this one first. _

"You have finished speaking with my brother?" Even his voice was large, somewhat thunderous, filled the room.

"Yes. And you are?" Hermione asked.

"Ah, forgive me," the man said, shifting expressions abruptly. "I have forgotten my manners in my haste to reassure myself that my brother is a well as can be expected. I am Thor Odinson of Asgard. I am told you are Harry Potter and Hermione Granger and that you are allies of SHIELD."

"Secretaries, actually," Harry corrected, taking hold of Hermione's shoulders and steering her inside the room.

"I am not familiar with this term. But if today is an example of your skills, I am certain that you are very valuable soldiers."

Harry's lips quirked upward. "Today wasn't exactly a typical day. Director Fury said you wanted to meet with us?"

"Yes. Please, sit," he said, indicating the table with a kind of flourish that somehow didn't reflect their mundane surroundings.

Harry slid out Hermione's chair, then took the seat next to her.

Thor's piercing blue eyes studied them before he took his own chair, shockingly direct and blunt, somehow, even with merely his gaze. His eyes held theirs with a directness that bordered on rude. "You have met my brother. What did you think of him?"

"He's complex," Hermione answered diplomatically. "A puzzle with high stakes."

"And now you are being kind." He leaned forward, elbows coming down on the table, calloused hands coming together. "I had never seen my brother taken so off guard by simple words."

"He was expecting the dog to bark. Instead it wrote a symphony," Harry said, slouching downward in his own chair. He leaned quite casually on his hand. "If I had to guess, you're brother's an incredible egoist. He doesn't think anyone is really his equal, so he doesn't know what to do when people can meet him on his own terms."

Thor's brows furrowed. "I think that might be an unfair judgment," he protested. "Before the truth of his birth was revealed, Loki was among the more humble among the æsir."

"Silence doesn't equate humility. It can go a lot of ways-disapproval, boredom, disinterest. I don't think your brother has a humble bone in his body."

Thor frowned but didn't contest the words. Hermione sighed and gave in to the urge to kneed her temples. "Thor, was it? Or do you prefer Mr. Odinson?"

"Thor is preferable," he replied, expression shifting into a charming smile.

"I realize you've already given a statement to SHIELD, but I want you to tell me everything you can about Asgardian culture. Tell me how his adoption is significant beyond what it usually would be. And tell me about the Jotunn. How are they regarded by Asgardians? How do the Jotunn regard Asgardians relative to them? You briefly mentioned a significant history of conflict, but what sparked the conflict? Resources? Revenge? What made them a threat to Asgard? Are they capable of transversing realms independently or are they dependent on bridges such as those created by the Tessaract? What is their relative status among the Realms? Is there established social order and precedent?"

"Hermione," Harry said, breaking her thread of questions. He waved his free hand toward the now taken-aback god settled across from them.

Thor blinked, then chuckled. "Is she always like this?" he asked, directing the question toward Harry. "It seems to be a common feature of mortal women."

Harry didn't smile. Instead, he regarded Thor quite soberly. "I have a question of my own."

"Please, ask," Thor invited and Hermione turned to Harry curiously.

"You say you came here to recover your brother."

"Yes. No matter what he has done, he is my brother."

Harry nodded. "Then rethink your approach," he said bluntly.

"I do not understand," Thor said after a moment when he didn't elaborate.

"I...have a friend. A very good friend. We've known each other for a long time now, at least by mortal standards. In school, he was jealous of me. To the point where I didn't know whether we could be friends anymore. I learned something then. What your brother wants least in this moment is your hand extended in an offer of help. That only reinforces everything he every hated about your relationship. The reason he did what he did in the first place is because he thought he wasn't regarded as your equal. And if you save him, it will only prove all those people right."

"So what then?" Thor challenged, for the first time displaying the first stirrings of anger. "I simply withdraw my hand? I do not think that is advice I can take, Harry Potter."

"If you don't want to lose your brother, you might have to. He doesn't want you to save him," Harry told him frankly. "He wants to save himself. To prove to everyone, especially himself, that he's capable of it. That there's something special about him too."

Hermione realized again how lucky she was to have a friend such as Harry. There was no bitterness in his voice when he talked about Ron and his temperamental nature, only an understanding and acceptance of it. Just as he took in stride her bossiness and bookishness.

She watched as slow understanding dawned in Thor's eyes, but he shook his head. "I cannot abandon my brother," he repeated.

"Then you'll lose him through your stubbornness," Harry said with a shrug. "And I don't remember telling you to go home to Asgard and let Loki fend for himself. Just don't be the big damn hero."

"I do not know if I can do what you ask," Thor confessed. "It is not in my nature to be anywhere but the fore of the battle."

"You're not a beast," Hermione said crisply, redirecting the conversation to suit her needs. "You can overcome your nature. Now-."


	8. Undaunted at the Roche Limit

A/N: Thanks to everyone for their wonderful responses!

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Eight-

Undaunted at the Roche Limit

On Asgard, Loki had been accustomed to retreat as it pleased him to secret places and habitations when he required reflection or simply wanted to escape the boorish company of Thor and his ilk.

Here in his glass prison there was not even the illusion of privacy. Doubtless it made SHIELD's dauntless leader sleep easier at night, despite the indisputable fact that Loki's most dangerous abilities were those invisible to mortal and immortal gaze alike. No one could see magic at work unless the wielder wished it so and Loki most certainly did not want to lower the most arcane of arts into something as mundane as any other weapon. Still, despite the fact that even his own mind was no longer sacrosanct did not mean that he was prohibited from thoughts, so long as they did not promise treason to Thanos.

There was no real precedent among the æsir for the campaign against memory and mind that had been wrought against him. The æsir believed in the power of deeds above all else. Even Frigga's sight and Odin's knowledge was limited to what a man was destined to do, rather than whether he would approach that fate with gladness or fear. So Loki had been vulnerable as he had never been since he was but a child to-he censored his own thought.

It wouldn't do to dwell on what could not be changed.

Instead he contemplated his wardens of the day just past, the single night guard assigned to him too well-trained to engage in conversation with a dangerous criminal.

It wasn't unknown for him to be stymied or surprised by another. No had been more surprised than he at the dramatic difference only a few days as an exile had seemingly worked upon his brother. If it hadn't been Thor, Loki would have suspected nothing more than trickery. After all, what was three days against a thousand years of rampaging across battlefields throughout the realms?

And though he had chosen to fall into darkness rather than bear the indignity of being saved by the very people who should have trusted in him the most and turned against him when they should have stood at his side, much as Odin would have done for any short-sighted campaign of Thor's. He still couldn't understand why the man who persisted in calling himself his brother had brought them to the very brink of war and been welcomed home as a prodigal son to be well-feasted, while his plans, which would have neatly crushed any threat Jotenheim posed for hundreds of years almost without repercussion, had seen him decried as a traitor to his father.

Which was foolishness in the extreme, for he had never intended to allow real harm to come to Odin. Yes, he had craved recognition for saving his life, but such a deed would also have set them on equal terms. Once, whatever his motives had been, Odin had saved him from a miserable, barbaric existence in a broken realm, had he been allowed survive beyond infancy. If he could have only changed their relationship, made it something new and untainted with the deception of his existence, he would have been satisfied.

He was also no fool at politics; he knew his name alone wouldn't have satisfied the rulers of the other realms, just as Thor would have to deal with those who were aware that Odin's talents had been parted out in his sons-one had gotten his cleverness and the other his strength, but neither was their progenitor's equal yet. He had no desire to assume a title higher than regent in his father's absence.

But all this was irrelevant, the clutter of a busy mind. Loki glanced over at his guard, who was very busily glowering at him. He smiled, which seemed to unsettle the mortal.

Nothing like Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. He was still unsettled by the girl, who had asserted an outside influence without even a flinch of doubt even when he'd raged and deflected. And the boy's sardonic air seemed to conceal something-he wasn't quite sure what yet. Agent Barton hadn't mentioned them when he'd quizzed him on the members of the Avengers Initiative.

Perhaps they were not field agents. Perhaps they were like the good silverware, taken out only for special guests.

Whatever they were, he doubted they were only secretaries. Only a fool would believe that. And just as Miss Granger had said, Loki was no fool.

-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-

Cosmetic charms were one thing, full body glamour quite another, especially considering what it concealed. Sometimes it ached, at others it burned, but never was it comfortable.

The discomfort was a welcome distraction from a fruitless morning. Loki had decided that he would be pleasant. Which meant they had inane conversation that would've been appropriately accompanied by tea and lemon drops.

Harry had parted from her to retrieve something from his room, so for almost the first time since they'd boarded the helicarrier, Hermione was left to herself. She could feel the vibrations of the engines through the soles of her shoes, reminding her that she wasn't safely on the ground. She felt the first stirring of fear and it was so threatening to her that she didn't notice the approach of the man.

Which, later, she would find enormously ironic, because few people had such a sense of their own presence as the man before her.

"Hi," he said, thrusting his hand at her. "How would you like to go to law school?"

"Beg your pardon?" she asked, automatically grasping his hand, which enveloped her smaller hand in a firm, vigorous shake. But he didn't release her hand when the business-like gesture was finished.

"Stanford, Harvard, Cambridge. Your choose. Any college in the world. Eight years and then you come work for me. I'll even throw in a better pair of shoes," he said, looking askance at her sturdy and practical pumps.

Hermione blinked. "I'm afraid I don't recognize you."

"You will," he said with the kind of utter self-confidence that had the real possibility of being off-putting, but he somehow made it almost charming. It didn't hurt that his forceful charisma was accompanied by a physical attractiveness that was aged around the edges like a good wine. "I'm the biggest name on this bird. But you can call me Tony," he invited.

"Stark," Fury's recognizable voice rang out. "Stop trying to poach my help."

Tony finally released her hand to hold both of his up in an ironic gesture of surrender, considering that Hermione had finally recalled where she'd seen his face. Everywhere. Newspapers, television, product. Stark Industries might not have existed in her world, but it was endemic in this one. "Considering that _you _are the one that planted an agent in my legal department, I think you owe me one," he retorted, his hands in motion as he spoke. There was no stillness about Tony Stark. He was in motion and swept others into it. "Besides, you're wasting someone like her in Admin? You deserve what you get in that case. Great work by the way," he said, turning to Hermione again. "I think I'm a fan."

"Thank you," Hermione said, smiling somewhat helplessly.

"You really should consider my offer," he encouraged. "Do you want to waste away your life saving the world by doing someone's filing?"

"And what would she be doing for you? Saving the world by pulling your ass out of whatever trouble you've gotten yourself into?"

"Hey," Tony said, spreading his arms wide, "who wants their heroes tied up in property damage litigations? Anyhow, you introduced her to the rest of team yet?"

"No," Fury said seriously, "I haven't. Because she's here to watch our houseguest, not chat up superheroes."

Tony glanced down at her pointedly. "She's not watching him now. Where's your sidekick, by the way?"

"He went to get something."

"I hope it's something that'll make the afternoon a little more interesting. I felt I was eavesdropping on one of my mother's tea parties."

Hermione frowned at that, but Tony's hand descended proprietarily on her shoulder in what she supposed was commiseration. "Well, if you're not going to let me introduce her around, I guess I'll just have to go make some science happen. See you around, Hermione."

She was left feeling a bit breathless, but judging by Director Fury's exasperated expression, that was quite common.

Hermione returned to the room with a grim determination to see the day through, but Loki had lapsed into thoughtful silence. She had a moment's curiosity who the agent had been to approach him and what they'd said to him, but she kept quiet, studying him without even the pretense of a game or novel.

He'd raised a brow when he'd first noticed her doing it, but then ignored her. "Is Mr. Potter not returning?" he asked at last.

She'd wondered where Harry had gone off to, but she didn't share the budding worry that told her that his scales had scraped the glamour raw. When she kept the artifacts in her flesh dormant and didn't actively work magic, her spellwork would persist until she dismissed it, but Harry's glamour had to be renewed periodically.

The Muggles thought he was diabetic and disappeared to check his glucose in privacy, an illusion aided by the presence of a metallic medical bracelet. It was in fact laced with her magic to help fix and settle the glamour.

"Are you planning to escape while he's stepped out?" she asked.

Loki smiled at her. "Something like that."

The ship shuddered like a great Abraxan preparing to throw a rider and she heard the dull roar of sheering steel and flames. When she felt the deck begin to shift, she realized that the nightmare that had haunted her since she'd stepped foot on this wretched contraption was occurring. Muggles had never been meant to fly; now they were tipped earthward and it was only a matter of time before the nose gave greetings to the ground. Her grip went tight on the edge of the table.

_You love to fly on horseback, _she reminded herself sternly. _I own a hippogriff. I compete, for Merlin's sake, in midair dressage events with the bloody thing. And every summer I allow myself to be coaxed on a broom so that I can be laughed at during the yearly Weasley family Quidditch game. _

But those were magical objects and she had the freedom of the air; somehow it was worse to be locked in a box of steel and bolts, running on little more than springs and pistons and propellers.

"Are you alright, Miss Granger?" Loki asked, coming closer to the glass. "You look a little peaked." 

_Breathe, _Hermione coaxed herself. _You're not a Muggle. You're not trapped. At any moment, you can Apparate anywhere. And Harry is here. _Her breathing evened out and she stood. She crossed to the cage, coming closer to it than she ever had before. In order to maintain a semblance of polite distance, Loki was forced to step back. She searched his face for some hint of regret, but found only poorly hidden glee at a scheme come to fruition.

_I wish, _she thought with frightful intensity, _that it really was only fools and those a step up from beasts that chose to become evil men. _She and Harry often prodded fun at former targets, but there were the ones that they never spoke of as well. Men and women who'd become more in their pursuit than a series of criminal acts. Those who were founts of talent and power misused for selfish-and sometimes simply unfortunate-reasons.

"Goodbye, Miss Granger," Loki said. A single footfall sounded on the floor behind her and Hermione half-spun, reaching by instinct for a wand that wasn't holstered on her arm, having only a moment for an instant of rage and disappointment before the butt of the rifle caught her temple with a resounding _crack. _

-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-

Hermione was barely aware of convincing Thor to take them, the throbbing in her head like second heartbeat. She'd awoken with her glamour intact, but she could also feel the heat of Morgan's Heart. But she didn't fear being ridden by the spirit of vengeance within it; she'd never trusted Loki, so there had been nothing to betray.

Thor held her tight against his chest, Harry's arms thrown tightly about his neck as he lay in as low a profile as he was able so that the wind wouldn't rip the Muggle he seemed to be from Harry's back.

"What do you think you can accomplish?" Thor asked them both, but he might as well have been asking it of himself.

Quite frankly, Hermione didn't know. There was no action she could foresee that would be effective without outing some part of what they were. Harry risked Thor's notice by subtly moving his hand over hers. "You remember," he told her. "What they told us. That it wasn't power that made us heroes. That it was being willing to sacrifice despite the cost to ourselves."

Hermione understood, then, what Harry intended. She indicated her agreement with a gentle return of the pressure of his grip; it was in that grip, which might have crushed flesh if that was what lay under the glamour, that told her what this cost Harry.

"That was very wise advice," Thor interjected, breaking the illusion of their aloneness. "Who gave it to you?"

One of the instructors at the Auror Academy had been giving that speech to ranks of Aurors for longer than Hermione had been alive, but it had resonated with Harry and Hermione, who'd both come into the Academy knowing what sacrifice meant, not just in some noble ideal, but in practical terms. Hermione had made herself an orphan for the duration of the war and almost everyone that Harry had regarded as family had died for the fulfillment of the prophecy he'd borne since he was a child.

A thrust of blue light pierced the sky, radiating upward from a building with the Stark name emblazoned on the side. Hermione's eyes locked on the shifting sky, the daylight blue peeled away to reveal the darkness of space, filled with alien stars. Her hand clenched Harry's with something like desperation, but then figures began to pour through.

Thor spilled them onto the balcony of Tony's building, Harry rolling from his perch and Hermione being in danger of being crushed by Thor's armored chest.

Loki was wearing armor of a make she'd never seen, making him look more alien and distant than ever. Curling horns crowned his helm and in his hand he held a weapon that was at once a staff and a spear, with a curved blade protecting a core that radiated the same intense blue that had folded space and time in on itself to create a doorway large enough to march an army through.

"Loki!" Thor bellowed as he straightened. "Turn off the Tessaract or I'll-" he halted himself and his hasty threat. "Please, Loki," he said. "You're the only one that can stop this."

"It cannot be stopped," Loki retorted from whence he stood, several steps above where they'd landed. "There is no other way but the war."

Sirens and screams combined to create a dull din below, the sound of the Chitauri's weapons loud and screeching by comparison as they filled the air with their odd chariots, some unholy melding of machinery and the same organic material that made them.

"So you're committed, then?" Hermione asked.

"You could be a hero, brother," Thor said. His earnestness was written on every line of his face and his slack grip on his hammer.

"A hero?" Loki scoffed at the idea. "I opened the gate," he said.

"And you may still yet close it," Thor pleaded.

There was the barest hesitation, but then something seemed to reaffirm Loki's path. A shadow crossed the sun and Hermione craned her head backward to see a great beast swim through the portal. Like oversized interlinked vertebrae in form, it bellowed out a challenge, secure in its enormity and strength.

Loki was smirking at them, Hermione noticed from the corner of her eye. He was waiting to see their reaction. "Tell me," she asked, face set in coldly unimpressed lines, "do the Chitauri burn?"

Harry, who'd had his back pressed against the clear plastic railing, smiled at her, more a baring of teeth than any human gesture.

Thor and Loki both noticed the direction of her attention, so both saw when Harry's feet left the ground, back arching as he toppled over the side.

"No-!" Thor said, but Hermione's grip stopped him as Harry's horns first revealed themselves, then an eye big as the circular platform Loki'd been standing on, still bottle-green, narrow slit of a pupil dilating in the change. His wings scraped alongside the buildings, leaving long furrows and broken windows as two powerful strokes took him above the line of the buildings. But no more damage than that-he'd transformed utterly before his clawed feet would have touched ground and crushed the cars and people still trapped below.

Harry's scales glistened in the sunlight as he gained altitude, the sun filtering through the thinner skin of his wings to cast colored shadows as he went.

His roar shook the air as he threw his head back, spitting great gouts of fire at his enemy, foreclaws catching at the front of it as he pushed it back from the city, rearclaws rending at whatever they could reach. His tail beat at the beast and it roared, this time with pain.

"What is this?" Thor asked.

Loki looked equally as aghast. "There have not been any great wyrms on Midgard in hundreds of years," he said faintly.

"Are you not a shapeshifter?" Hermione challenged, knowing that she could defray some of the cost here and now, so long as she revealed only what she had to.

Her words regained Loki's attention and he marched swiftly down to where they stood.

"Look me in the eye," she challenged, all her honed skills of Legilimancy poised like a coiled serpent, "and tell me that I'm an ant."


	9. Exclusion Principle

A/N: You all remain wonderful. And I have a real, actual day off tomorrow, so many of the grammar errors in the proceeding chapters should disappear by tomorrow evening. There is one day this week you might not get an update-the second part of the Hobbit is showing and as much as I adore my readers, I really must see it. Also, not sure my chapter name scheme was entirely wise; I think I'm going to run out of cool astronomy terms before I run out of things to write about.

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Nine-

Exclusion Principle

The fire spun rapture through his veins, a song of self-adulation, of fire, of flight, of magic unmatched. Wind whistled through his horns as he climbed; it scoured the disuse from his wings, created a symphony to his fierceness and power. His scales glittered beneath this sun, the color of avarice and old blood, his claws as dark as the pitch and hard as diamonds.

The Dragon was the greatest of his kind within the range of his senses; his only challenger was already beneath his claws as he trumpeted a cry that made the small beings below quake in terror, the scent of their mass fear teasing his senses like the distant promise of hoard-gain.

Somewhere below, in the tangled concrete nests of their kind, his treasure hoard sung in the low, honeyed voice of enchanted gold and in the near-disharmonious clash of magics meant to help and harm. The lesser part of his brain that was still purely human indentified it as Hermione and Harry took comfort in that knowledge, knowing that though his human consciousness had never been fully consumed by his dragon-self, Hermione would be able to prevent catastrophe if such a thing were to occur. To control a dragon's hoard was to command his heart; this was in part how goblins and wizards alike had manipulated dragons for centuries, to play guardian and gatekeeper for gold that sung so sweetly and was so easily taken.

The whale-creature struggled and another exhalation of fire swept away human concern and returned The Dragon's full awareness to his battle. The sheer joy of the play of wind against his wings, his claws against flesh, his fire against bone, the intensity and struggle of battle, threatened to burst his great heart, so much was his exultation almost a living thing inside of him. His opponent was slow and unwieldy; only its sheer, crushing mass made it worthy of notice to The Dragon.

Its carapace was heavier and denser than bone, but The Dragon's claws found purchase, cracking the surface like asphalt beneath a hammer. Smaller beings emerged from beneath its belly and tried to swarm him, like fleas trying to leap from one dog to another, but he allowed them to stream on to him, then belched fire, immolating himself. They found it less refreshing than he, falling from his back as hunks of ash. Harry hoped they would disintegrate before they reached the ground, but he couldn't stop his battle because Muggles hadn't the wisdom to seek proper shelter rather than becoming a mindless, terrified river in the streets.

He'd crashed into the whale-creature's face and it now tried to lunge forward and dig its teeth into his more lightly armored belly, but The Dragon threw himself clear, pulling his wings in tight to his body so that he plummeted sharply. An instinctive adjustment of his wings flipped his body so that he was now looking upwards to the creature's underbelly. The Dragon's first instinct was to ride it to the ground and there destroy the limbless beast with greater ease, like hatchling flopped fish from the stream. But Harry wasn't so dismissive of the loss of civilian life that would surely result.

The Dragon did not know what manner of magic gave the other beast the ability to fly without wings, but he was certain he was the stronger of the two. Magic thrummed through his body, as indispensible to his lifeforce as blood to lesser creatures and he called it up now, humming deep in his throat. The magic rose in a furor to obey, flushing the leathery skin of his wings a deep shade of red when usually they were bronze. Extending one wing with an audible _whoosh _as air rushed to catch it as it unfurled, his body was righted again and his back met with the belly of the beast in a jarring impact. He had horns from the crown of his head to the tip of his tail and the long ridge of his spine was no exception.

Something cooler than his scales leaked onto his back, sizzling as it met his magic. A hollow sound not unlike a groan was brought from the throat of the whale-creature. The Dragon braced itself, then extended his wings to their full expanse, casting a shadow across the city below. It was a struggle to beat his wings while bearing so much weight, but with a battle cry that shook the air, he brought them both downward strongly, them drew them upward again. They lurched upward painfully, a slow and laborious climb, and The Dragon made use of its serpentine neck to look beyond the bulk of his prey.

The rift continued to intermediately admit small creatures, but The Dragon was not concerned with them. Instead, he checked only that his path was clear, for he intended to expel the beast from his territory by the same gate that it had entered.

Perhaps sensing his intent, the whale-beast struggled to escape, but he only used its upward dart to gain momentum, his whole strength poured into his wings, which continued to bear them ever upward. At the last moment, he pulled his wings close again and dropped twenty, thirty feet in an instant, then blasted it with fire, this time directed and sustained. The ridges of its body began to glow with heat and its groan became a roar of pain.

Swallowing down the remnants of his fire, The Dragon brought his head down and with a powerful beat of his wings collided with the beast, horns meeting carapace with a sound like a thunderclap. His cry was a shriek of victory as the beast was thrown back through the gate, swallowed up by darkness with its body still smoldering.

His final charge had put him within the beam of the artifact which had been grating his senses since he'd returned to his proper body. Energy crackled along his scales like teasing fingers and it tried to beguile him, its song sweet and sonorous, but it was the sickly sweetness of rotten fruit. The Dragon disdained simple power, its own hoard far more enticing, combining all that was best. The glitter of gold, the gleam of jewels, and the warmth and kindness of Hermione. The Dragon resented the unsubtle net it attempted to cast over him to bind him tight, so he spiraled downward, clutching at the sides of the building it perched on to bring his head level with the artifact. Only the single human, watching him with terror in his heart, helpless to flee, halted his inhalation.

Flame licked at the edges of his mouth in what was almost a sigh. He turned his attention to his hoard instead, her distinctive song loud in his mind as she soared upwards in the arms of the incarnation of thunder.

-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-

Loki was all but gaping; Thor was doing it quite openly as Harry engaged the enormous creature far above their heads.

Hermione frowned, taking the moment's distraction as a reprieve. She intended to use Legilimancy alone, utilizing Thor should brute force become necessary. She would not reveal the full scope of her powers until every other avenue had been exhausted. The children of Hogwarts were raised in such a way that the Statute of Secrecy was less a law and more a divine commandment, ruthlessly enforced by specially trained squad of Obliviators at the Ministry who were always ready to mobilize at an instant. In all her experience, it was the one service of the Ministry that had never seemed inept, no matter who sat upon the Minister's seat.

Hermione did not disagree with it. And she was also a warrior herself; she knew how much easier it was to counter an enemy when one was familiar with their tricks. Loki was one of the last people she was prepared to reveal herself to, for what meager advantage surprise might offer her might last only seconds and it could never be fully regained.

No, she would rather he think her a Muggle until the time came when it was the choice between revealing herself and surrendering the battle.

Legilimancy was considered a borderline Dark Art, for its permeations were numerous and it was never totally benign. Legilimins such as Dumbledore could take a mind with such subtlety that his opponent was never aware that he'd just bared his soul to a man who might well have conquered the world, had he not turned away at the last moment. She'd heard Voldemort's own unique twist on the magic had been intentionally cruel, rapaciously thorough, and nigh impossible to guard against, because he little cared if he broke the mind that attempted to defend itself.

Harry's experience with Snape, where he interacted with the memories as if they were contained within a Pensieve was the result of an inept beginner's fumbling. Never would a proper Legilimins do that anything but intentionally.

Hermione was beginning to believe she would have to repeat herself when Loki shakily broke his seeming trance and descended the steps heavily, boots clapping against the metal. "What madness is this?" he asked, eyes catching hers and demanding answers. "There is no magic in Asgard that can make a dragon so real that it can breathe fire."

"You can take many shapes," Hermione murmured, intentionally low, as if intimidated, "but Harry's just got the one." _Not a lie, _she thought, thenhesitated before plunging into his mind, recalling Harry's advice to Thor. Would Loki, who'd taken betrayal so badly at the hands of his father and brother, ever forgive them this? Because with Thor standing at her side, an implicit threat, it would be to him as if Thor had given his approval.

But it was a null point if he never discovered the invasion. And Hermione, though she had never plundered the mind of a god in debatable truth, had faith that she would emerge the victor of an unacknowledged battle.

With that in mind, she wrapped herself around the incantation like it was a scalpel rather than a word and thought _Legilimins _like she was whispering it across flesh, the blade so sharp that the least pressure would part flesh.

She ignored the disorientation of the sheer expanse of Loki's memory, which stretched back a millenia. What she desired was more recent, unless Thor had the wrong of it and Loki had been cultivated long ago. But there was a certain rawness to his recent memories, as if they'd been impressed more strongly on his mind by the violence of them, that she'd happened upon the truth when she'd first ordered those Muggles in Germany to surrender to him.

"What manner of creature is he?" Loki demanded. There was no disturbance or disconnect in his stream of consciousness that revealed an awareness of her presence. Within unnaturally lax natural defenses, almost like the mind of a Muggle, Hermione swam smoothly through his memory matrix, sifting with the quickness of a being unhindered by physical presence. The mind was capable of operating many times more quickly than the body was, so she needed but a brief time.

"He's human," she replied to Loki. "An ant. And if ants just happen to perform feats such as lifting ten times their body weight, reacting as a single unit to a much larger external threat and killing it with their venom, or any number of things, you should know that's simply the nature of the creature. Its strengths are different than yours, but that doesn't make them any less real."

When she happened upon the memories she'd been seeking after following an unexpected trail of threats and manipulation, she almost faltered in her speech. Because what she'd seen, tucked in a dark corner of his memory, likely in the fervent desire never to recall it, was the proof of her accusation, but also evidence that made her feel the first faint twinge of guilt for having invaded his mind so insidiously. If ever he discovered it, forgiveness was out of the question; he would try to obliterate her.

Hermione was no stranger to torture or pain, but this was a kind of manipulation of thoughts and emotions that was at once abhorrent and, removed from any kind of human emotional response, magnificent in its complexity and subtlety. Trapped in physical discomfort in an environment void of almost any other sensory information save the chill, the dark, and the pain of the stone against his knees as Loki was made to relive every slight, humiliation, and betrayal, intensified until they were raw edges that left his soul bleeding while his physical body was chained to a barren rock in the emptiness of a blasted world. This being-this Thanos-she corrected herself, had used the power of the staff, which he'd distilled directly from the Tessaract like a sculptor might a chisel, emphasizing the anger and the alienation until Loki's recall became distorted.

And then, when the wounds were still fresh, while Loki had been poised on the brink of mental collapse, Thanos had offered him something. A light in the darkness, a path in the woods. A choice that really wasn't a choice at all. Thanos would raise him from his powerless state, make him more than his brother's equal, and make worlds kneel at Loki's feet, if only he would do this one, terrible favor.

When the Titan, his eyes aglow with madness and disconcerting obsession, had described the entity he'd destroyed his own people for, she'd felt an odd awareness on her skin, where the Cloak lay, and in her spine, above which there were runes carved into her flesh that described the Wand and its power. She wondered if Harry would have felt some reaction in the Resurrection Stone that had embedded itself where his collarbones met.

Until that response, she'd assumed that Mistress Death was just a name, just as Iron Man or Captain America, concealing a more mundane presence beneath a character greater than the any person-save Tony Stark-could live up to every day. In the same way that they'd called Harry the Boy-Who-Lived. But she dreaded that the awareness of the Hallows meant that the entity that Thanos courted truly was some embodiment of Death.

Withdrawing with the same care she'd entered, Hermione was once again only in her own mind. She felt none the more comfortable for it, given the information she'd just gleaned. Still, despite her uncanny discovery, she'd made one more pertinent to the immediate peril.

"Loki," she said softly, almost beseechingly, "End this."

His brows arched, bemusement at her sudden shift writ clear enough on his face. "Why?" he challenged her. "I've already made it clear to Tony Stark. Your appeals to my humanity are only amusing, nothing more. Or have you exhausted your stores of cleverness already?"

"What humanity?" she asked in the same soft voice, isolating her newly acquired knowledge so that she wouldn't let it color her next appeal. "But what point godhood, when you'll rule over only those too weak to die on the spears of their enemies? When you'll be king of nothing but the dross, the cattle. Your feasting-table will sit empty, for you will have destroyed the best and finest. You will have only slaves, not warriors, for company in the long nights of eternity. Perhaps you will turn your eyes on shining Asgard and find that your kingdom is but a faint shadow, like memories poorly recalled."

"And for what? Spite? Revenge? Would it not be better," she asked, "to seek your adoptive father's favor honestly? Because if you have the right of it, your exile punishes none but you. Asgard feels no loss of Loki Silvertongue. But the loss of Asgard has broken your heart."

Loki's lips screwed up in a snarl and he would have answered her, but Thor cut in. "Loki." It was a single word, but it was enough to distract his attention. "What she speaks are but lies. Asgard does not stand on the strength of arms alone. In truth, my nature is closer to a Jotun's than yours has ever been. I rampaged in battle like a beast, thoughtless and mindless in my arrogance, yet was that not what we scorned them for? Whatever your blood meant you for, you defined yourself by your mind, your magic, and your deeds. You _are _my brother, Loki. Turning against Midgard will not change that, because you cannot erase the memory of the Loki I knew and well-loved. I suppose, at the end of things, it is I who is the monster, because I truly cannot think of any way to convey this to you except to beat it into your very bones."

Thor shifted his grip on Mjolnir and struck out at Loki with such unexpected quickness that Loki's eyes were still wide as he ducked beneath the swing of the hammer.

Hermione skittered out of immediate danger of being crushed, but Tony Stark's narrow balcony gave little option for escape, except into the Tower. And, knowing as she did that the staff was the likeliest key to locking the gate, she didn't want to chance that they would take their battle elsewhere and put it firmly out of reach.

How to convey this to Thor without betraying herself? If it had been Harry, she could have whispered the suggestion in his ear and he would have complied without question. If she had been in her own world, safe from the possibility of discovery, she might have recovered it herself.

_Discovery_, she turned the word over in her mind, the root of her fear. And a plan began to take shape.

Scurrying into the Tower, she sent a silent plea for Tony Stark to forgive her and tried to ignore the possibility that her next actions could potentially do something in ignorance to his suit, if he had some technology he desperately needed in the building. Only uncontrolled magic did real damage to electronics, but no matter the degree of control a witch or wizard possessed, there was always ambient power, which was why no electronic device worked at Hogwarts. She pulsed raw magic through the Tower to destroy any surveillance equipment, but she found that the power was already down. _Harry, _she realized. He'd shifted next to building.

Without further delay, she allowed the Cloak to resume its natural state. Beneath its comforting invisibility, Hermione muffled her steps and then crept back onto the balcony, laying flat on her belly on Tony Stark's uncomfortable stairs. More than just blows were being exchanged by the two brothers, but she couldn't be bothered to focus on their dialogue. She was waiting for a moment's opportunity and she couldn't afford to miss it because she was weighing words.

Finally, a blow from Mjolnir caught Loki a heavy enough blow that he staggered, his grip on the staff faltering as his hand was flung backward toward Hermione's position. _Accio,_ Hermione thought mildly, watching as the staff tumbled toward her location, rolling to a halt just at the base of the stairs.

Ceasing to be invisible and recasting her glamour almost in the same breathe, Hermione lunged forward, fingers closing about the staff only seconds before Loki could retrieve it. Pushing herself into a forward roll, she was past Loki and throwing herself bodily at Thor. "The roof!" she commanded.

Thor's expression was quizzical, but perhaps the murderous rage on Loki's face served to convince him that her idea was sound. One of his thick arms pulled her to his chest and he launched them upward almost at the same instant Harry came crashing down from the sky.

The scientist who'd been staring gobstruck at Harry turned to them, then seeing what she held in her hands, lunged. Thor's expression was pained, but Thor struck him down gently. "Eric Selvig," he said softly, "my brother has done an awful thing to you. And I am sorry for that."

Blinking, disoriented, perhaps suffering a concussion, Dr. Selvig staggered to his feet. He looked confused for a long moment, but then his expression cleared and his eyes snapped to the staff Hermione carried. "Good," he said, as raggedly as might be expected of someone who'd been enslaved and made to open his world to an army of evil aliens," you've brought the scepter. I didn't know how we'd get our hands on it. I think I had more autonomy than Loki realized; I built in a safety to cut off the power source."

Bemused by this turn of events, because she'd rather expected that they'd only be able to perhaps breach the shield protecting the Tessaract with the scepter and then blast the thing with Fiendfyre once she'd coerced Thor into taking Selvig elsewhere, or something equally as dramatic and life-endangered, she robotically followed Selvig's instructions. But before she could breach the shield, Loki appeared at one side of roof, coinciding with the arrival of a red-haired woman wearing SHIELD insignia that Thor seemed to recognize. "Don't close the portal," she ordered imperiously.

"Why?" Selvig asked. Even Loki paused to regard the woman expectantly.

"Stark says we've got a nuke coming in. He wants to take it through the portal."

Activity at the breach turned Hermione's gaze upward as more of the whale-beasts broke through. Harry launched himself upwards, the Tower shuddering as he did so.

_So, here we are again, _Hermione thought with no little irony, _hemmed in on all sides. I thought this was going to smoothly. _

"How long does Mr. Stark need?" Selvig demanded, eyes fixed purposefully away from Loki, even though Thor had made himself a physical barrier between his brother and the scientist.

"Less than a minute," the agent promised.

"Do not interfere, Loki," Thor said warningly, but Loki stepped forward regardless. Thor tackled his brother and they disappeared over the edge of the roof. Hermione didn't leave her station, staff poised just beyond the field that protected the Cube. Her eyes tracked the progress of the Iron Man suit, waiting with the same bated breath as everyone else when Tony Stark disappeared into the gate and didn't return.

"We'll have to close it," the agent said and Selvig paused only a fraction of a second before he resumed work on his computer.

But then Harry was suddenly at the portal, head darting forward to catch something, then he was away. Hermione didn't even wait for the command as she plunged the staff into the field. The hole in the sky drew itself closed. And Hermione would have liked to say that everything was righted in the world, but nothing was ended that cleanly.

A/N: I entertained the idea of making Harry more of a green/brown/bronze color scheme rather than leaning toward the cliche red tint, but realized I'd be stealing Loki's palette. Also, feedback on his transformed self would be useful. I went with a dragon's mind with occasionally jarringly human recognition, like simply knowing what concrete is. In the Volsunga Saga, the dragon Fafnir was thirty fathoms long-some 180 feet (there is an actual danger of the hero drowning in its blood), while Rowling's Horntails average about 50 ft as an adult. I imagine Harry somewhere in the middle ground; I also imagine that, unlike the Horntail in the film adaptation, they have forelimbs. The wyvern model of dragon always looked rather unwieldy to me if you want your dragon to be able to do something beyond carry off sheep. Also, if I get something wrong on the Thanos front, tell me. Did not read the comics. Anyhow, the Avengers arc is coming to a conclusion, but we'll be continuing on to the events of Thor 2, where we'll finally reach the meat of the interaction between the principal characters. This was the equivalent of a first impression.


	10. Drowning in the Gravity Well

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Ten-

Drowning in the Gravity Well

"So," Director Fury said, addressing them across the breadth of his massive desk.

Harry shifted his weight awkwardly as they waited for their debriefing to begin. He'd managed to avoid being spotted as his horn-crowned human self, but dozens of people had optioned to film the dramatic aerial battle with their smartphones rather than seek safety. So, within the hour, clips of varying quality of his dragon-self had gone viral. Hermione had had the term explained to her as she'd silently panicked at the attention they were receiving, but Tony, who'd set JARVIS to keeping an eye on the comments, had reported that the commentary was generally positive.

When one looked beyond the ill-punctuated comments about the existence of dragons, there had seemed to be more excitement and less fear. The fact that he'd clearly been in the midst of combating an alien invasion had certainly done wonders on the public relations front. And, when the Chitauri had died a masse, he'd done what he could to prevent the whale-beasts from falling on the city and collapsing buildings that had sheltered innocents inside. There'd been flooding in some parts of the island where one of them had ended up in the East River, but there'd been limited outcry about that. Water was something Muggles knew how to deal with. Many-tonne monsters falling from sky was something novel.

"So," Director Fury said again. "First we have aliens, now we have dragons."

She communicated her ploy to Harry before-hand, so he knew that he was intended to be a shapeshifter of sorts, the Muggle equivalent of an Animagus. She'd hoped it would be less intimidating than a dragon with a wizard's power, which frankly was somewhat terrifying. He kept his silence, because Director Fury hadn't yet asked either of them a question.

"So, let's have the two of you put yourself in my shoes for a minute. Two of my secretaries, who more or less appear to spring up out of the grass a few years before they're hired on at SHIELD, turn out to be able to shapeshift into a fucking dragon, while the other is an aspiring mastermind. What sort of conclusion would you draw from that?"

Hermione glanced over at Harry. She'd already constructed the lie in her mind and she invested herself in it now. If they'd been born on this world, it might well have been true. It was mixed liberally with as much of the truth as she could manage, which was what the best lies were based on. "Harry couldn't always turn into a dragon," Hermione said in a low voice. "When it...happened, we couldn't stay where we'd been anymore. So we came here. We didn't intend to infiltrate SHIELD or anything. That just happened to be how the pieces fell. When we came to this country, we didn't even know it existed. We never wanted anyone to know. But wouldn't it have been worse to just stand on the sidelines and watch, when the Chitauri were a danger to everyone?"

"True," Director Fury said, "I'll agree with you on that. I'll even say that I believe you didn't infiltrate SHIELD as part of some plot. If you had, you would have remained spectators, because now that we know what you are, it'll be a lot easier to figure out who stole the super-secret nuclear launch codes."

Hermione's brows furrowed.

But before she could say anything, Fury said, "No, Granger, we don't actually have nuclear launch codes, because we don't have control of any nuclear weapons. Though we report to the Global Security Council and they, in fact, do. As you saw in New York."

"Anyway, the question now is what I'm supposed to do with you."

"Let us go back to work, sir?" Harry suggested hopefully.

Fury made a thoughtful noise deep in his throat. "Stark wants you on the front-lines, you know. As part of the Avengers Initiative."

Harry frowned. "With all due respect, sir, it was just luck that I could help in New York. The dragon-my other form-isn't exactly suited for urban combat. If they'd taken to the streets, anything I could have done would have caused more harm than what they were managing."

Director Fury actually smiled at that. "That's almost exactly what I told Stark. Only my response was to tell Stark that I'd already recruited him and Banner both, so we had property damage covered. And that it was _my _Initiative. Tony Stark is the kind of man who assumes he owns whatever he comes into contact with."

Hermione and Harry both grinned faintly at the effect that Tony Stark had on the Director. Hermione was somewhat in awe at the man's brilliance after realizing exactly how far he'd advanced Muggle technology, but she could not deny that he was the kind of man who liked to disturb people simply to see how they would react. And she concurred that Tony was not good for the sake of being good; there was an element of Tony looking out for the world because he was under the impression it belonged to him.

Still, she was flattered by Tony's confidence. Especially as he'd seen only her mind at work, supplemented by none of her powers.

"And what do you intent to do with us?" Hermione asked.

"Well, first, I'm going to fire the both of you as secretaries." A raised hand forestalled any protest. "Think of it as a compliment. You're dangerous. And though I believe your story, I can't put my organization at risk unless you're willing to admit who you were and where you were before you came here." He paused, but when neither of them volunteered information, he said, "See? I know the look of people running away from something. Instead, you're going to be brought on as outside consultants. We run onto a situation where it looks like your skillset will be useful, we fly you in, you do your thing. In the meantime, you enjoy college life on Tony Stark's tab. I recommend somewhere expensive."

Hermione realized that Fury was doing his level best to offer them opportunity, when he could simply have had them confined and interrogated. He would have been within his rights to do so and no one would have condemned him for it. So her trembling smile was edged with gratitude. "Thank you, sir," she said and a moment later Harry echoed her sentiment.

She'd wondered why such a straightforward man was in charge of what was essentially a spy organization, but now she had a glimmer of understanding. A man with deeper paranoia would have been soon entangled by the plots within plots until he reached the point where he was unable to trust even his subordinates. Fury was intelligent enough to recognize the plots, but he was direct enough that he was able act effectively and mobilize his agents without hesitating because there were too many motives at work.

"So," he said before they took their leave, "Any input on the label on your file?"

"Like a code name?" Harry asked, lips quirking upward at the idea. "Not really," he said.

Hermione shook her head as well, more curious about the name they would choose than interested in choosing her own.

"Well, that's it then," Fury said. "Get yourselves down to HR. They'll process your exit paperwork."

Being released from SHIELD turned out to be an exacting process that took most of the day. Evening was already writing streaks of scarlet across the skyline when they exited the building, but Hermione wasn't prepared to return home.

"Did you find out where they're treating Selvig?" she asked Harry in a low voice.

He nodded. "Dr. Banner told me."

"You met Dr. Banner?" Hermione asked.

Harry nodded, lips quirking upwards. "It was the nicest request I've ever received for invasive testing. I politely declined," his tone was dry as a desert. "He's...odd," he continued when Hermione continued to stare at him expectantly. "Like he's afraid that everything he touches is going to break."

"Like you were?" Hermione asked teasingly.

"That's because things did break," Harry said dryly, his hand settling on her lower back as he turned them off their usual path and guided her to a different bus stop. He moved closer to her, so he could stoop slighter and murmur directly in her ear. "They want Loki and the Tessaract gone as soon as possible. I know that the Tessaract is useless to use without the machinery to make it operate as a portal, but I have to know whether or not it can take us home."

Hermione nodded, seeking out Harry's hand and squeezing it in reassurance.

They were silent for the duration of the bus trip, wordlessly transitioning to another bus, which brought them before the hospital where Selvig was being treated for what was essentially a psychotic break. He'd devolved rapidly in coherency after his release and the rumors she'd managed to overhear seemed to agree that it was damage from being controlled.

Hermione thought differently. She'd seen the same phenomena in the Unspeakables and anyone who worked in experimental spellcraft. Contact with something greater than contemporary wisdom could process left them less able to function in normal society, their minds having been opened and occupied by the possibilities that they'd been presented with. Erik Selvig might have sacrificed polite conversation, but he would come to greater conclusions and ideas than he ever would have produced should he never have met the Tesseract. However, while the Wizarding world expected and compensated for personal oddness, Muggles were less understanding and far less forgiving of it. Selvig would likely be treated as if he had a mental disorder for the rest of his life, rather than his condition being recognized for what it was.

Ducking into an alcove, Hermione transitioned to invisibility and Harry cast a Notice-Me-Not charm, his hand finding hers with the ease of long practice. They skirted the Muggles milling in the waiting room as Hermione waited for the receptionist to be called away before checking the list. Selvig wasn't on it, but this wasn't an overly large hospital. Their manual search of the rooms took only about twenty minutes before they discovered the room the scientist was being housed in.

Regaining both visibility and her glamour in a nearby bathroom stall, she and Harry entered Selvig's room with an awareness that they would appear on camera well after visiting hours had ended. Still, they were in a hospital. It wasn't practical to short out the electronics. But if SHIELD was pushing for the return of Loki to his own realm, the Tessaract with him, they needed some sense of closure. If the Tessaract could be harnessed as a way to return home, they would follow it. If not, then they would remain here, searching for an alternative path. Though by Thor's description Asgard was far more technologically advanced, it was also populated with far more powerful beings than this realm. Warlike beings, no matter what twist Thor put on it. If they could return, Hermione wanted to do so with the guarantee that they wouldn't lead something back with them that would be a danger to their world.

There hadn't been a guard at Selvig's door, which indicated to her that SHIELD was sure enough that the danger has passed that they didn't want to risk unwanted attention, a fact ratified by Selvig's being in a public hospital rather than in one of SHIELD's facilities.

She'd worried they have to wake Selvig, but judging by the state of his room, he hadn't slept since being admitted. He'd acquired a marker from somewhere and was busily scrawling sprawling expressions across the walls. All of them seemed nonsensical to Hermione. "Dr. Selvig?" she asked gently, unwilling to startle him. He continued to write furiously and she thought she would have to be more firm to get his attention, but then he seemed to come to an end to the equation he was working on.

His eyes, red-rimmed but glimmering with intensity, narrowed as he stared at her, as if he was aware that he should know her but couldn't recognize her. Then his expression relaxed. "I never did learn your name," he said.

"Hermione. Dr. Selvig, may I ask you a question?"

"Of course," Selvig said. "That's why I exist, you know. To answer questions."

"Could the Tessaract be used to open a path to a parallel Earth?"

She'd expected him to mull the question over, but when he immediately scoffed, her heart dropped into her stomach and sat there like a lead weight. "Of course not. Here," he said, "let me show you something. Thor says they look at it like a tree, but here," he drew a long, bumpy line on his wall, obviously intended to represent a wave. He circled each of the peaks and crests. He stabbed his marker at one of them, apparently chosen at random. "This is us." He stabbed another one. "Asgard." Another. "Chituari homeworld. Do you see what they have in common?"

"They exist along the same wavelength?" Hermione ventured.

It was her turn to have the marker jabbed at her. "Exactly," Selvig confirmed. "All different realms, dimensions, whatever the hell you want the call them. But all on the same wavelength. Only in reality, the energy involved is so massive you wouldn't be able to describe it with such a gentle wave-it'd be all wild peaks and valleys, none precisely equal, all pressed against each other. The Tessaract path worked because it bypassed the rule that says you'd have to travel along the line." He drew a dark line between two peaks, a grim slash on the wall. He tapped it with his finger. "This is what the bridge looks like. It made immediate travel between the realms possible."

He turned his attentions to his diagram again, drawing a second line that didn't accord perfectly with the first. "Parallel universe. See here," he said, making Xs where they overlapped, "it can interact in abstract ways with ours, but travel between them is impossible. Especially for living things." 

"Why?" Harry asked and there was an echo of his heart breaking in his voice as it trembled. "Why couldn't you travel between them."

Selvig looked at them like the answer was obvious. "Because the dissonance would reduce you to atomic sludge. Or makes you explode. Quite possibly the latter. If you're unlucky enough that nuclear fission or fusion occurs, especially as some sort chain reaction-" he made violent X across a part of the parallel wave, "you've just destroyed whatever part of the wave you've landed on. Which might cause the collapse of the entire wave or it might not," he said thoughtfully. "Very few people can think on a scale of this kind; there's no telling what might happen should a part of the wave collapse. At any rate, the reason we can travel between these places and the reasons the Chitauri and Asgardians can be here is because we are on the same wave, which vibrates at the same rate through the sequence. Different wave, different vibration rate, your atoms shaken to bits like you've put them in a blender."

Hermione swallowed. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Selvig." Harry didn't follow her when she turned to leave, even when Selvig returned to his diagrams and seemed to forget their existence. Only her gentle grip on his arm would induce him to leave.

She was forced to use her own magic to conceal him, because he seemed to have been reduced to a waking coma-state. When they were clear of the hospital, Hermione Apparated them not back to their hotel room, but back to their shared apartment.

Speaking gently to him, she induced him to take a shower while she Apparated back to New York and checked them out of the hotel, collecting their things and bought two Greyhound tickets back home, Confounding several Muggles into thinking that she and Harry had boarded the bus.

Then she returned. Harry had long finished his shower and was sitting on their coach, wearing only a silky pair of pajama pants and nothing else, not even his glamour. His glasses lay folded on their scarred coffee table, which indicated more clearly than anything that he'd discarded pretence. A panicked look confirmed that he'd unplugged their television and removed their electronics from the room, which indicated that he'd pulsed magic to destroy any bugs.

Hermione hesitated before approaching him, arms hugging herself tightly.

It was almost a stranger that sat on the couch. She'd never really grown accustomed to the sight of the human-self that was Harry's reality. There was something nobler about him, as if his internal strengths were written more clearly on his flesh, but there was no disguising the bestial nature that he couldn't quite shed.

He'd been forced to grow his hair long in the manner of Lucius Malfoy, because the horns had caused it to stick up at more oddly than it already did, which robbed him of the one of his most distinctive characteristics. Though long his hair was little more well-behaved long than when it was short, it still seemed to further change the shape of his face. As it hung wet across his shoulders, she winced at the thought of the poor fabric of the couch.

His skin was the same tone it had been when he'd been purely Wizard, but it was contrasted with the deep red-black scales that she'd first noticed edging his eyes. They partially covered the top of his forearms and the tops of his hands, which terminated in darkened nails that looked more like claws than human nails. Great sweeps of scales followed the line of his latissumus dorsi and narrowed as they continued forward across his ribs and followed the defined muscles toward his pelvis. She was told that he was scaled across his inner thighs as well and there was a patch of scales along the back of his calves.

She was distracted from her study when Harry said her name, voice as raw and vulnerable as she had not heard it since the war. "Can we really never go back?" he asked her.

Hermione dismissed her own glamour, losing the comforting illusion that it was hands that gripped her upper arms. Instead she was confronted with her own limited humanity. "Harry," she said helplessly, caught in the suffering in his eyes. Harry was her best friend in all the world. She didn't want to disappoint him, regardless of how much she too wanted to return.

"I'm going to divine, Harry," she said softly, clutching at her elbows. "Perhaps Selvig is wrong. We came through to this world, after all."

Harry's gloom did not dissipate. Instead a harsh, barking laugh startled her. "Merlin's balls, Hermione, haven't you figured that one out yet? It's because of the Hallows."

"And if they saw us through once, they could do it again," Hermione said stubbornly.

She retrieved her purse and pulled from it parchment and pen and the specialized ink used in Arithmancy.

She spread her tools on the coffee table, exhaling uneasily. Harry leaned forward. "Would my blood help?" he asked, his own misery put aside for the moment as he saw her fear.

She nodded tightly. Dragon's blood was one of the most magical and versatile of magical ingredients. Not of efficient as unicorn's blood for preserving one's life or so accurate as adding centaur blood to one's ink in making diving the future, but capable of doing both. Harry drew deep gouge in his palm and allowed it to drip into her inkwell, healing it with a quick _Episkey_ when it threatened to run over.

Bending her mind to her number tables and the intent with which she looked forward, Hermione focused on her task. She'd been well-known as an Arithmancer in the Wizarding world. She could do this. She would. Hermione began isolating and describing intent and variables in numbers, eliminating possible futures and tracing actions and consequence. Numbers flowed from the nib or quill; when it splintered, Harry was ready with another.

She wrote on for hours, never having cast a divination this far-reaching, that required knowing the future of not one but two worlds as well as Harry and Hermione. And when dawn was just breaking, she slumped forward, cradling her head in gauntleted hands. Tears dripped onto the parchment.

Harry drew her up onto the couch, letting her tuck herself tightly into his side. "We can't use the Tessaract to go home, Harry," she whispered. "We survive, but-."

"Other people don't," he finished for her. He pressed a kiss into her hair. "Shh," he said as she began to sob in earnest, though his voice was distorted by his own tears. "The Tessaract wasn't our only option, just the most obvious."

"But how long until we discover another one?" she demanded. "How long until we can go home, Harry?" Her gauntlets scraped against his scales, but he didn't complain. He just gathered her closer, until their sorrow mingled so closely that it could no longer be separated, Harry's pain becoming her own and hers feeding back into him.

A/N:...so, yes, I invented some science. Probably inaccurate, but hopefully understandable in the context of the story. Essentially, it's separate theories dropped into a paper bag, shaken well, and dumped onto the page.


	11. Consolation of the Schwarzchild Radius

A/N: And so we advance toward Thor 2. This is intended to be a Thor crossover, even if we began with The Avengers. There will be **spoilers**, so be aware of that, even if some of the events play out differently. So, either shuffle yourself to the nearest theater-absolutely worth it-or wait until it's released to read these chapters if you want to avoid that. This is also the last of the major time skips I had planned, so after this the plot should settle into a more reliable pace.

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Eleven-

Consolation of the Schwarzchild Radius

Time blunted the sword that had slipped through her shield of hope and denial to pierce her heart; Hermione began to accept that she might never return to the Wizarding world.

It wasn't so much the word of a single Muggle scientist. That she might have overlooked. She had learned that for every scientist, there was a competitor who disagreed, especially in such an experimental and theoretic field. But when she had divined the chances of their success, she had made it real.

Professor Vector had looked at them, gray eyes as hard and unforgiving as steel, when they'd sat in her classroom for the first time. She'd taken her time, gaze demanding that each student in turn meet her eyes. "The future is free," she'd said at last, "until it is burdened with the yoke of prophecy. True prophecy cannot be tricked, turned aside, or overturned. It _is. _So, if in the course of your studies here, you become able to accurately predict the future, be aware of the burden of it. If you are going to divine a prophecy, one written in numbers and facts rather than in foolish riddles, be prepared for the responsibility of making it truth. Because one the chart is completed, you cannot take it back. You cannot unsee what you have seen, you cannot unwrite what you have written. You must simply live with it."

Hermione had not forgotten that. It was why no one used Arithmancy for any but the most dire of circumstances, because there was always the possibility of locking in an unfavorable future as the one that would occur. If she and Harry now tried to transverse worlds by virtue of an energy path, the result would be catastrophic.

So while she still looked for weaknesses in the membrane of the world, where her Earth and this one collided or overlapped, she did it more through habit than a belief she would eventually discover a way to return.

She felt like she was rediscovering magic, living on this Earth. One day, the potions supplies she'd brought through in her purse would be exhausted and many of the ingredients did not exist on this version of Earth, primarily because most of the creatures that provided them did not. So she tentatively began to assay substitutes, because the other option was to accept that she would eventually lose the practice of an entire branch of magic. If she or Harry lost their wands or they were destroyed, she didn't even want to contemplate how they would be replaced, but most magic required little enough in the way of equipment.

Even Arithmancy supplies could be acquired at most any stationary store, the special ink comprised of ingredients that she could still find-its main ingredient aside from ink was the blood of the diviner.

Rather than searching so desperately for solutions, they turned to an exercise that allowed Harry to burn through his frustration in a way that didn't result in mass panic-they trained ferociously, because anything that could cause a god fear was something a shade beyond terrifying, especially as it was unclear what other powers Thanos possessed aside from the mental ones he'd used to subjugate Loki. So they Apparated to the most remote and inaccessible regions of the Earth, honing skills that they'd acquired throughout the years and relearning their limits.

Hermione had left anonymous tips to SHIELD about the possibility of a second invasion, but without concrete evidence there was little she could do. She could hardly pluck out a memory and mail it to Director Fury, though that would ease the process considerably, though it would mean admitting that her skills weren't limited to extensive research. Muggles couldn't be brought into a Pensieve, just as the ingredients that wizards used in their potions were likelier to kill a Muggle than have their intended effect.

And when not doing that, they were students.

There was something almost nostalgic about it, living under constant threat while still turning in term papers, but she wasn't certain whether it was a comforting nostalgia or simply bizarre coincidence. She'd enjoyed having the leisure to study with Tony Stark's money, which paid for tutors, tuition, and expensive required testing, but she also felt guilty, accepting his generosity while still seeking for a way to escape this world.

But Harry benefited with less guilt. "I think he just wants to have a dragon on his security team," he said dryly. "I think he thinks it's ironic."

Hermione's coursework was more labor intensive than Harry's custom-built Security Management major, but hers had also suffered beneath Tony's tweaking. Hermione didn't know what he intended to do in a foreign country to want her to have such a thorough grasp of international law, but she'd once been familiar with the law systems of beings radically different from Wizards. International law had the advantage of generally concerning humans, whose basic concerns were the same from country to country.

That was her new mundane.

And as things went, it wasn't so bad. She began to reach out to others beyond Harry. Tony Stark wasn't precisely a friend, being too unpredictable for that, but he was known to call, text, or simply appear as it pleased him.

They hadn't been able to avoid meeting the other Avengers after the battle, though by the time they met them, Thor and Loki had returned to Asgard. But while all of them had been quite pleasant, being at university while the others relocated to Stark Tower meant that it was more an acquaintanceship than real companionship. Though Harry had a quiet kind of rapport with Steve Rogers. Harry's forced reintroduction to the Muggle world meant that he had a great deal of sympathy for Steve's bemusement at modern life.

She'd been woken extraordinarily early by Tony calling and she'd peevishly asked if he ever considered that his schedule wasn't everyone's. He'd laughed and then proceeded to ignore the question. When he'd finally rung off, she had been soundly awake, so she'd proceeded through her morning routine with irritated energy, which finally settled when she was in the shower and had rinsed all the shampoo from her long, tangled hair.

As she stood beneath the warm spray, Hermione tried once more to pry open Morgan's Heart. The diadem wrapped about the back of her head and the arms of it bore gentle pressure on her scalp, but nothing justified its inability to be removed, not like the Hands, which had seamlessly become one with her flesh. After a moment, before she broke skin, she gave up the exercise as fruitless. She no longer felt an immediate rush of fear when she considered its presence; it had lain dormant for years now and she couldn't imagine the kind or scale of the betrayal it would take to wake it. Stripped of its malice, it was simply an over-sized ruby with a pear cut, set in an elaborate framework of red gold.

Trying to remove the Heart marked the end of her routine except for checking that she hadn't worked soap into the crevices of her gauntleted hands. Peering hard at the metal as she held her hands beneath the spray, Hermione made a mental note to oil them when she finished today. She wasn't certain magical gauntlets accrued wear like more mundane metal, but they were now her hands. She would be loath to be proven wrong and have to rasp rust from her fingers.

This was her new life. Hermione was coming to accept that now, that even if she was able to return to the Wizarding World, there would be no magical solution. No Healer would be able to remove the artifacts. They were a part of her, just as the dragon was a part of Harry.

A rustle beyond the curtain drew her attention. "Harry?" she called out curiously. She'd have been apologetic had Tony by proxy broken someone else's sleep this morning, but she'd never woken Harry by a late-night phone conversation before.

It was Jack, her mirror, who answered her query. "There's a bleedin' huge raven perched on the sink," he said.

"A raven?" Hermione asked incredulously, peeking her head out from behind the shower curtain.

It was indeed a raven, she confirmed, though larger than even the ones she'd seen in the Wizarding world. When it saw that it had attracted her notice, it pumped its wings to glide to the floor and hopped closer to the tub. A gleam of light caught on metal caught Hermione's notice as it neared; it carried something clutched in its beak. When it reached the edge of the tub, it tilted its head upward imperiously and spread its wings impatiently.

Fumbling for the knobs, Hermione turned off the water and pulled back the curtain. The raven was forced to hop backwards as she stepped over the side of the tub, dripping water onto the bathmat. There was no obvious gleam of malice contained in its inky eyes, but there was entirely too much intelligence. She went to reach for her clothes and the raven croaked indignantly and puffed itself up.

"So, you won't even allow me to get dressed?" Hermione asked with an unhappy resignation. She knelt and held out a hand to stop its approach. "If that thing is a dark magical artifact, I promise to survive long enough to pluck out all your feathers," she told it, then lay her hand flat to receive the object. Hopping forward, it released into her hand a shining golden orb about the size of a human eye. If they'd been in the Wizarding world, Hermione would have assumed it to be a Snitch, but she'd never seen the language engraved on the metallic surface. It was to Runic what a child's first shaky letters were to a fine hand of cursive.

Passing her other hand over it, she probed gently for dark magic, prepared to snap up a barrier or pitch the thing across the room if it attempted to ensnare her. But it did no such thing, though what happened next did startle her.

The script began to glow and a golden figure materialized before her.

"Shades of Slytherin," her mirror exclaimed. It wasn't the epithet she might have chosen, but it was a fairly apt way of describing her sentiments.

If Patronuses came in human form and were created of golden light, it could have been that; Tony Stark would have assumed it was a kind of projection. It didn't seem to be able to do more than relay a message, for which Hermione was grateful. She'd have felt more than abashed about her lack of clothes if she thought some stranger was watching through its single eye. But instead it stared forward in a regal manner at the tile of the bathroom wall, though it might have held her gaze had she been standing rather than crouching.

"I am Odin Borson, King of Asgard," he began. Hermione couldn't fathom why the King of Asgard would send her a message, but neither could she imagine who would play this kind of a prank. If it had been Tony, the delivery system would have been a bit more mechanical; Harry enjoyed pranks but didn't usually perpetrate them. And she wouldn't pretend that her pool of acquaintances was anything but small. The possibilities of those both willing and capable were soon exhausted.

And there was something in the man's manner, even in the poor reflection of a projection, that demanded that she believe his claim. If one forged Mad-Eye Moody in his prime and Albus Dumbledore in his venerable wisdom upon the Anvil and gave him a spear to wield rather than a wand, this might have been the result. But he really did not resemble either of his sons, she thought, taking in the grizzled, bearded old man with a single eye.

"I have sent Huginn to you and Muninn to your companion, Hermione of the Grange, because both of you a hereby summoned to Asgard. I have given Heimdall instruction that in an hour of your time, you will be brought before me by means of the Bifrost. There is much I would converse with you about, but what concerns us in this moment is a matter of magic," he pronounced the word sharply and Hermione flinched as if struck. "I have seen your true natures. I know that both of you are powerful workers of magic and that neither of you are from these realms. But this is not to be a trial. But I will speak no more on this until you reach Asgard."

With that the projection blinked out and the glow of the runes faded. The raven-Huginn-cocked its head at her expectantly. She absently combed her fingers through its breast-feathers. She'd expected discovery eventually, once she'd come to the realization she would have to live on this world for the remainder of her long, long life.

She'd expected Tony or Fury to be the one to out her; Tony had scowled at the way Harry's magic had destroyed his electronics-he'd made an educated guess concerning that-and subsequently developed, in the space of a week and a half, shielding for all his vital systems that couldn't be brought down by uncontrolled magic. There was something truly extraordinary about how his mind worked and Hermione wasn't certain whether to be awed or simply alarmed at the leaps and bounds he advanced science by when he focused his attention long enough.

To be discovered instead by Odin was-actually, now that she took the time to consider it, it really ought to have been expected. Thor had mentioned Heimdall. And, judging by the presence of the ravens, it seemed his all-seeing gatekeeper wasn't the only source Odin had for information.

But to be summoned by Odin was something else entirely. Hermione couldn't come up with a plausible reason they would be called to Asgard. But, whatever the reason, now that she knew that Odin was aware of them, there was no reason to enter unprepared. Slipping into her underwear, which caused Jack to remark, "My gran's witch wore panties like those," Hermione ignored the rest of the clothes folded neatly atop the hamper.

She strode across the emptiness of their shared apartment to her room, being trailed by a persistent raven. Her purse waited on her nightstand and she riffled through its pockets, pulling her Hit Wizard kit from the place where it had been stored.

Harry stumbled through her doorway when she was slipping on her leathers. "He can make Heimdall clock an hour, but he can't have him look at a clock first?" he grumbled, still distinctly rumbled from sleep.

A second raven preened itself on his shoulder. Hermione snorted. "We're surrounded by people who operate on no time but their own." She flung his uniform at him and he laughed as it slapped him in the chest.

"What? You don't want to appear before the King of Asgard wearing tatty sneakers and yesterday's shirt? What kind of American college student are you?"

Hermione shot him a scathing look, but Harry only turned his back to her so that he could dress. "Feels a little odd, doesn't it?" he asked with an air of offhandedness, but she doubted he truly felt so casual about what they were about to do. "Being me in front of someone who isn't you. You being you in front of someone who isn't me. I'd gotten used to it being just the two of us. Just like old times."

"Except with rather more deities," she retorted. But then she answered him more seriously. "It had to happen eventually." She pulled out her purple robes and slipped them on, her hands gently fond on the fabric. It had seemed like a lifetime since she'd been able to wear robes openly.

"So who has to cook breakfast before being called to account before the King of an alien race?" Harry asked impishly.

"You," Hermine answered immediately.

Harry gazed over his shoulder and put on a comical sulk. "Or we could go to McDonalds," he suggested.

"No," she answered. "If this is my last meal, because Odin has decided it's been too long since he's been on a dragon hunt, I do not want my last meal to be _McDonalds_."

Harry chuckled. "Blueberry pancakes?" he suggested.

"If you must take the easy way out," Hermione conceded with a smile, turning to watch Harry sling the distinctive robes across his arm. She smiled at him and it only trembled but a little. "What happened to our plans to live out our lives growing old in the country, Harry?"

"We had Fortune's eye on us," Harry said, his grin softening to something more heartfelt. "And laughing is better than crying."

An hour seemed a generous portion of time when mentioned in passing, but when it was all the time one had to prepare for traveling to a Realm they'd only been told of, it didn't seem nearly enough. But exactly an hour later they'd showed the furniture out of the center of their living room and stood, Harry prodding at the raven that insisted on sitting on his shoulder, Hermione with Huginn perched on her gauntlet like a falcon upon a hunter's wrist.

Then between one breath and the next, blue light plunged through their ceiling and caught them up, snatching them away to gleaming Asgard, seat of the æsir.

A/N: Ick. Summary chapter, more or less, but necessary.


	12. Down the Throat of the Einstein-Rosen Br

A/N: It's somewhat amusing, the comments I get concerning sidelining Harry when I felt that it was fairly obvious at the beginning of the story that this wasn't Harry's tale in the same way that _Harry Potter _is. I _do _think of Harry and Hermione as a unit in my head and that won't change, but Harry no longer has the dominant role in what is now a partnership rather than a hero accompanied by his critical thinking engine/plot exposition vessel. Though there might now be elements of heroine accompanied by her allied dragon. I find TRuS!Harry fun to write, given that I've balled up all the canon angst and tossed it out the window, but even if I presumed that both of them might eventually develop a sense of humor, I don't think Harry solved a puzzle on his own in the entire series.

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Twelve-

Down the Throat of the Einstein-Rosen Bridge

Traveling along the Bifrost wasn't at all like Apparation. Apparation was at most a sensation of discomfort as one traveled immediately between one place and another; the Bifrost pulled them through a sky bursting with glistening stars, hung like jewels in the net of darkness. It stole Hermione's breath and for a moment, as she was given the impression of floating though she knew they were hurtling forward with enormous speed, she almost wished she could stay suspended in time and space until she could learn the names and stories of the stars and Realms that filled her field of vision.

But it was over almost as soon as it had begun and they were deposited onto a golden floor. The color extended, she noticed immediately, to the complex workings of the dome and the armor of the man who stood a sentinel in the center of the room, hands resting easily on the hilt of an enormous sword.

She presumed him to be Heimdall, especially as he kept his gaze at a fixed point, not deigning to look at them directly. But just as she thought that, he turned his head to look at her and she found that his eyes too reflected the color of the precious metal that was in such abundance here.

But she was distracted by the man who stood expectantly to one side. "Welcome to Asgard, Harry Potter, Hermione of the Grange," greeted the being who could be none but Odin. "I have introduced myself already. You'll forgive if we don't continue this conversation here, but I wish to bring you into Asgard under cover of darkness."

Hermione would have stepped forward to follow him as he turned, but Harry's arm barred her way. His jaw was set and his eyes watched the other being narrowly, his pupils faint slits. "Is there a reason you're going to smuggle us into your city?"

"Aside from the way you look?" Odin remarked with remarkable composure. "Yes. But if you want to hear it, you'll need to come with me now."

Hermione waited until Harry nodded tightly and lowered his arm before she stepped forward. For a king, Odin seemed quite prosaic, wasting no more time on greetings as he crossed the room in long strides. He indicated with his hand waiting horses, mounting one of them in a practiced movement. Hermione and Harry followed his example, but it did not escape her that Odin watched them as they did so.

"Heimdall did mention that you could ride," he remarked offhandedly. "Though horseback is a little different than dragonback."

Hermione tried to smile at him, but it was difficult. There was a distracting sensation twining itself about her ankles, where further red gold lay embedded in her skin. She hadn't noticed them when first they'd been pulled to this world, just as Harry hadn't learned of the Resurrection Stone's new place of repose until they'd gotten to a safer place and stripped themselves of their clothes. That had been when she'd learned of the runes that were carved into the flesh of her back and when she'd seen that she had what amounted to liquid gold in a complex pattern about her Achilles tendon. She'd seen them on the list but dismissed them; Epona's Spurs were useful only when used in conjunction with a horse and she hadn't had much opportunity to take riding lessons on horses that weren't partially eagles or didn't have wings.

But she mastered herself and ignored it. She'd have to take off her boots to use the artifact. There was no danger. That was what she told herself as she urged her horse into a brisk canter, claiming the right flank as Harry brought his mount up on the left. They were both right-handed, but if things went ill, Harry could transform and she could wield her wand without impediment.

Asgard, she found as she stared at the approaching city, was something like Hogwarts writ large, everything so obviously magical and precious that after so long, there was no more wonder to be gleaned from it. Everything was breathtaking scale and elegant lines, obvious wealth and ancient culture. Even as Odin slowed their pace to a walk and let them on a winding path through the city as they approached what might well be called either a palace or a citadel, she found so many things that roused her curiosity that it was no difficulty at all to sit in dumb silence and simply observe.

It was when they stabled their own horses that Hermione came to realize just how seriously Odin intended to keep them from the populace. Their feet rang against the flagstones, but otherwise the halls that they trailed through were empty and silent, as if they were entering a tomb rather than a place the living inhabited. But at last they reached a final set of doors that led to what seemed to be a receiving room. Odin seated himself in a throne-like chair whose seat had been cushioned by the thick-furred pelt of some beast thrown over it, the chair itself simple in design and the wood well-battered through use. The room was much smaller than what she would have associated with her first impression of Odin and there was an aura of well-use that almost shifted toward shabbiness that pervaded all the furnishings.

"Now we can speak," he said. "If we are interrupted here, it will be the first time in five hundred years that they've discovered where I retire to when I require more privacy than a king is afforded."

Harry's lips quirked faintly, but he remained silent, shadowing Hermione as she chose a seat across from Odin. "Your Realm is beautiful," she said earnestly.

"You did not come here to compliment it," Odin said, but it was said with a warmth that said her attempt at politeness was not unappreciated. "I fear you will form an ill opinion of Asgard's hospitality, but these are unusual times. I would have called upon both of you eventually, but events have transpired that have made it prudent to bring you here now."

"Must be bad," Harry commented.

"It is," Odin replied. Any warmth that he'd formerly possessed was nothing more than cold ash. "The time when I called upon the souls of mortal men is long past. No human had walked the halls of Asgard for hundreds of years until yesterday, when my son brought home his mortal paramour and with her an even more unwelcome visitor. Thor told me that both of you came into contact with the Tessaract. What was your impression of it?"

"Its song rang false," Harry answered immediately, then grimaced as he realized he might be expected to explain.

But Odin forestalled him. "I have hunted dragons. I am familiar with their senses."

Harry nodded, relaxing slightly in his seat. "It promised power, but it's sentient. And anything was a sentience of its own, however rudimentary, has its own agenda. That's common knowledge."

"Not so common as one might hope. And you?"Odin asked, turning the question on Hermione. "You were the one to breach its defenses. How did it seem to you?"

Hermione frowned. "It didn't seem like much of anything to me," she confessed.

"Then I do not know whether to say you have wisdom or you lack ambition," Odin said thoughtfully. "Or perhaps you simply escaped the notice of the Tessaract."

"But the Tessaract was secured," Hermione said, not mentioning her personal hypothesis that it would be more difficult for the Tessaract to interact with someone who had Occlumens training. Only his dragon-self had made Harry susceptible to hearing it, but he hadn't felt the tug of it strongly. "And when Thor spoke of it, in many ways it sounded like simply one of many threats secured in your armory."

Odin inclined his head."That is true. In our armory lies the power to destroy these Nine Realms thrice over, but few of them are malicious in and of themselves. The Tessaract will beguile, but it will never do more than manipulate what darkness already lay in the heart of its controller. And it can be controlled. What we now face is a threat to us all."

"But why bring us?" Hermione asked tentatively. "We're hardly Earth's only heroes."

"Because both my sons think me a fool," Odin answered bluntly. "And because my elder son _is _a fool, and my younger son will take my elder son for one. I have known my sons from their birth up, so I am hardly a stranger to the way they will think and act. Should something unforeseen occur in our defense of the Aether, Thor will do as he is always done, which is to follow through with his own will, heedless of the danger he places others in. I have banished him to Midgar once for such an offence and though it was his pride involved rather than his heart, both are capable of making one blind."

Hermione exchanged a glance with Harry.

"So we're here to stop Thor from doing anything stupid?" Harry asked tentatively. "Or are we here to protect Thor _while _he's doing something stupid?"

"No. I have always given both my sons freedom to make their own decisions, even when they are poor ones. If I treat them as weak and in need of my constant guidance, they will never learn properly of consequences. Their nature and their position protects them from much of the hardship that is the reality of many of the Nine Realms. It is hard for we æsir to grow be something more than childlike and harder yet for princes born when Asgard had already established itself as greatest of the Nine. And Thor has companions of his own, to assist him in whatever plot he might hatch. But he cannot help himself; he _will _seek the guidance of his brother."

"Loki?" Harry asked. "He didn't seem particularly fond of Thor, last time I met him."

Hermione had been told that an illusion of her unconscious body laying at Loki's feet had made Thor charge into the glass prison like a maddened bull, not realizing it was illusion until the door had already sealed shut. Hermione very much resented being used as bait, but the fact that Loki's illusion had made her ignore a soldier until he was but two feet from her was more disturbing. She was accustomed to having the upper hand when it came to battles of invisibility. The fact that Loki was obviously more flexible but no less powerful was alarming. Especially given what she knew about his true motivations.

"Fond? No. They are too different for such a simple idea to be what defines their relationship. They are brothers. Thor has depended on Loki's agile wit to escape the consequences of his actions for almost as long as they could walk. Whether Loki will agree to help him now is a matter in some doubt. He would need a powerful motivation. But if caprice makes him agree, he will exploit his brother's need for him. He will not be able to help himself."

"What I have brought you here to do," Odin told them with an unyielding manner that left no room for their own opinions, "is to protect Loki from himself. The being that came back to Asgard from Midgard was almost a stranger to me. I do not know what has happened to unbalance him so. But I knew, from the moment that he failed to see through your illusions, that it was something that threatened his fundamental self."

Harry blinked, a clear film sweeping over his eye before his more human eyelids closed. "What do you mean?" he demanded.

"Your illusions are just that, are they not? No more than donning a mask."

Hermione nodded slowly. "This is the strongest _glamour _that we're capable of. We stretch it thin, because Harry's taller than he appears and my hands aren't where they should be."

Odin's brows had lifted a little at the word glamour, but then he nodded to himself. "You should be aware," he said, "that the words you use to describe and shape your magic are not translatable by the All-Tongue. I believe this to be because your magic originated from another world. You would not be able to learn our magic and we might never understand yours. Or so my experience has led me to believe, having watched your conversations through the eyes of my ravens."

"So you can't understand magical terms?" Hermione asked, somewhat interested in this despite herself. "Does it just sound like a foreign language? Because it's bastardized Latin, mostly."

"No. A foreign language implies that one might be capable of learning it. And I am fluent in Latin by virtue of the All-Tongue. The words shift themselves in one's memory when one tries to recall them. Not even Huginn and Muninn can do so. It sounds quite beautiful, in its way, but it makes little more sense than trying to glean words from music."

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance. "What about something like Muggle?" Harry asked. "It's more a nonsense word than part of any magical language.

Odin frowned, then nodded his head. "You are correct in that it isn't a word I have ever heard, but it isn't something that it impossible to reproduce. Muggle. What was it supposed to represent?" he asked.

"It's a term to describe nonmagical humans," Hermione responded. Odin nodded his understanding and Hermione relaxed. She'd never considered a communication barrier, but she supposed they were lucky to have been translated to an Earth where everyone still spoke the languages they'd been accustomed to on their world. Being unable to speak the language would have proved nightmarish.

"If you must speak of your magic, do so in broad terms. Use our words for things, if you can. Our magic is less involved with language than yours seems to be."

They both murmured their understanding. "But our...illusions, what do you mean when you say that Loki should have seen through them?" Hermione asked.

"As I implied, you only donned a mask. Loki is a master of shapeshifting, capable of changing his very self to suit his whim. When he is a bird, he does not simply wear its appearance. He is, for all intents and purposes, a bird bearing the mind and soul of Loki. And he does this with the ease that most reserve for changing their garb. Your trick ought to have been laughable to him, yet he was taken in by it."

"Is it possible that he saw and simply chose to do nothing?" Hermione asked, begrudging though she was to admit to have been so easily taken in.

But Odin allayed that fear. "No," he replied. "If he saw you to be a dragon, he would have no reason not to attempt to bring you under his compulsion. You would represent an enormous tactical advantage the Avengers could not hope to match. You saw what he was capable of with the aid of only mortal help."

"Not even as part of some strategy within a strategy?" Harry asked.

"If Loki had been himself and truly wished to subjugate Midgard, I fear that he would have done so. Thor inherited his mother's warm heart and my strength, but Loki took the lion's share of cunning from the both of us. I remind you that he is a shapeshifter with few limits. From what Thor tells me, the Avengers began their alliance more likely to destroy each other than cooperate. What was to stop Loki from masquerading as one of their number and spreading dissention? They were strangers to each other, so none of them would have been in a position to realize there was something amiss with their behavior? What was to stop him from replacing your Director Fury? Yet he did none of these things. Though I did not tell Thor this, I suspect that Loki allowed you to win."

Neither Harry nor Hermione made any response to that. Hermione subtly tucked her knowledge of Thanos between the pages of one of the innumerable books in her mental library.

The brow above Odin's good eye rose. "You do realize that I have been _Loki_'s father for over a thousand years. You need centuries more practice if you intend to lie to me." His eye was trained not on her, but on Harry, who scowled.

"Why am I surrounded by bloody mind readers? Yes, we know something. But first, I have a question. What did you do with Loki?"

"He is imprisoned."

"Somewhere secure?"

"Our dungeons are secure."

Harry stared at him incredulously. "You seriously have him in your dungeons? Please tell me when you say 'dungeon' you mean some isolated rock in the middle of space, not as in 'he's downstairs.'"

Faint irritation brushed itself across Odin's expression. "And what would your people have done with him?"

"Honestly?" Harry asked, leaning forward slightly. "We'd have had him Kissed at the least."

"Kissing is considered punishment on your home? It must be a very peculiar place indeed."

"We have a...creature," Harry grimaced at the memory of Dementors, "devour the criminal's soul. They become an empty shell, devoid of purpose or personality."

It was Odin's turn to grimace. "It would be more humane to execute them."

"We do that too. And as for imprisonment, those creatures feed on happiness. We use them to guard our prison, which is a citadel in the middle of the North Sea. Not in the basement," Harry said pointedly.

"Are you reprimanding me?" Odin asked.

"If you feel reprimanded, you're probably doing something wrong," Harry said, still leaning forward aggressively.

Hermione squelched the urge to clip him upside the head. There was nothing particularly bad about the advice except the manner in which he was giving it, but she'd thought she'd finally managed to politically housebreak at least one of her boys. It appeared that it had not survived the dragon.

She worried too at how easily Harry divulged details of their world, but perhaps the time for secrecy had past. Still, she rather wished that Odin's introduction to Wizarding culture hadn't begun with one of their most barbaric aspects.

"Harry," she whispered. He sunk back into his seat in response, but the challenge didn't disappear from his face. She turned to speak to Odin, then hesitated. She spoken thoughtlessly before, but addressing him directly she found herself uncertain of protocol. "Is there a title we should be addressing you by?" she asked.

"In this room, you speak to Odin the man, not Odin the king," their host replied.

"Then, Odin, if you don't mind my summarizing, you want us to stop Loki from harming himself or others should Thor free him from his imprisonment? Is that why you've brought us here? In which case, isn't that exactly the opposite of what you said before? That you let your sons make their own choices? And, again, why _us_? You never gave a proper answer."

"When I am convinced his actions are truly his own, then he may have the freedom of them. For now, my belief that he was coerced is the reason that his head still sits on his shoulders. And as for why the two of you, it is because your power lays solely in sorcery. And Loki has not met his equal in magic since his mother. When I said I would have one day called upon you regardless, it would have been for the purpose of asking you to act as his companions. Thor has warriors to stand by his side, but Loki has not been so fortunate in making friends."

Harry's brows rose."And how would Loki feel about his father picking his friends?"

"It is expected of a prince, that his friends must either be chosen for him or be suitable for his station. If he disliked you, Loki would soon induce you to leave. And if he approved of you, he would feel less isolated in his preference of magic to open combat."

"Alright. Ignoring the gaping logic holes in that argument, why would _we _choose to stay?" Harry challenged.

"Because Asgard has something you will come to need," Odin said and he settled more comfortably in his seat, interlacing his fingers. There was a complex expression on his face that somehow reminded her of Loki at his most subtly smug. "For what does a being do, whose death is in question, but whose ability to age is not? Or did you intend to one day become draugar, living corpses whose flesh has decayed but whose will has turned against the living because their souls refuse to leave for the next world?"

Hermione exchanged an alarmed glance with Harry. They'd discussed what would happen to them, fused as they were with the Hallows. Possessing all three offered one Mastery over Death, but it did nothing to stop the aging process, though the raw power the three artifacts imparted slowed it considerably. Only the Philosopher's Stone offered eternal youth in a feasible manner. They'd made themselves Secret Keepers of the three and it'd been Harry who'd jokingly begun to refer to them as joint keepers after ownership of one of the Hallows had shifted.

Once they'd recovered the Stone, he'd noticed his magic was affected and come to her to ask the reason. She'd treated him to a very droll look and he'd quickly caught on. But Harry had no desire to be a Master of Death; his most fervent desire had been normality, or as normal as one could be when heroics formed such a major part of his character. He'd needed to surrender at least one of the Hallows to achieve that. It had taken him about fifteen minutes to make the decision, most of which were spent locating the Wand of Destiny among his socks. Harry had kept the Stone and Cloak because both reminded him of his parents.

And after he'd the priceless magical artifact in the chaos of his sock drawer, he'd stood before her, wand dangling from his fingers like it was something smelly, and Dark Lords had wept in their crypts as he'd grinned at her and said, "Well, disarm me."

Hermione had done as he'd asked, but the instant it landed in her hand, she'd shoved it back at him. Harry was nobler than she, as was made apparent by the easy sacrifice. She might have been tempted to actually make use of the thing, which would have defeated the purpose of their well-kept Secret. The Wand had been unimpressed by its transfer. It had worked far better for Harry than it did for Hermione, proving that it, just as much as she, had regarded it as 'Harry's Wand.'

Harry had called it parting out custody of their children, hence joint custody, which became joint keepers when Hermione had decided it wasn't quite so funny as he seemed to think it was when he'd insisted that he'd gotten to keep the daughters and she'd been left with the son who'd inherited Harry's temper, Hermione's bossiness, and the uncontrollable hair of them both. She'd thrown something at him, which had only earned her the comment, "And this was why our marriage failed. And when we even named him Wendell after your father. For shame."

Wendell had been the alias she'd used when she'd sent away her parents, not her father's actual name, but she had to admit that it was somewhat tempting for several weeks to refer to the Hallow as Wendell the Wand. When it had stopped working for her entirely, she'd let the joke die a natural death, but the term joint keepers always lent their situation an air of levity.

The intent had been to shed the Hallows before they died, using the power of their deaths to seal them away for a very long time. But now, as they were, there was no way to do so. And, because they had split the artifacts between them, there were questions as to how that might affect their dying. Hermione had the Cloak, which hid her from Death's gaze, so her non-end might be reasonably predicted, but Harry bore the Resurrection Stone. Would he be locked into an endless loop of reincarnation? Or would its association with ghosts make him rise as a kind of spirit being?

"And what would you suggest?" Hermione asked carefully.

"Eat of the Golden Apples," Odin said.

"But only for a price," Harry retorted sharply.

"It is not a gift given out to those undeserving. And there would be other advantages. Thor's complete lack of magical ability meant that he was entrusted with Mjolnir long before he was responsible enough to deserve the wielding of it. You have weapons of similar power, but one of our warriors might be able to give you skill enough you do not trip over your own spear."

Hermione blushed so deeply red that her fingers tingled and she covered her face in her hands. "I cannot believe you saw that," she muttered. "It was bad enough to have a dragon sniggering at me."

"Kind of hard to fear your spear o' doom when the first thing you do with it is break your nose," Harry added unhelpfully. But then his intensity returned. "I don't mean this as an insult, but do you really believe Loki can be saved from himself? And that he's worth saving? Because if you don't, if you have a _shred_ of doubt, this conversation ends now."

A/N: Because Odin felt like he lost complexity in the second film and that was disappointing, I felt I owed it to the character to have him interact with his sons like they were his sons and not virtual strangers.

Also, because I got a guest comment last chapter that I couldn't answer directly, a short answer on why I had Hermione's message addressed to Hermione of the Grange. Thor has a bizarre manner of addressing people that's vaguely medieval, so in following that trend, I have Odin do the same. A grange is an outlying farm that tithes to a feudal lord or equivalent. So you could be 'of the Grange' indicating where you made your residence. Harry would not be 'of the Pot'. Potter is a profession, so if he were addressed in the same manner, he would be Harry the Potter. He could be Harry of Potter's Field, but that would associate him with the burial place of paupers and criminals. But I left it alone, because 'the' can be dropped and still be understood.

Aether.


	13. Contention Against the Event Horizon I

A/N: Thanks as always for reading! Very short chapter again today, but at least the promise of another one tomorrow-a longer one-should make it at least a little more bearable. I too wish I didn't have to work and could exclusively write fanfiction, but alas it is not to be.

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Thirteen-

Contention Against the Event Horizon (Part I)

Hermione held her breath as Harry refused to drop his gaze, challenging Odin with nothing more than the intensity of his eyes. She wasn't certain of the wisdom of antagonizing the man who controlled their ability to exit his realm, but she found herself curious of how he'd respond.

He did not answer immediately. But before she could begin to think he wouldn't answer because he was offended by Harry's manner, Odin said with icy civility, "I cannot fail to _try_. Loki has done what none have before-fallen from the Bifrost and returned. How am I to judge that effect of something outside my experience? Perhaps Loki will never recover, but he remains my son. For that reason, I look past his actions on Midgard. And I hope that someday my son may return properly to me."

Harry continued to regard him, but then he relaxed. "I don't prostitute my friendship," he said simply. "It doesn't matter if I can't die properly. The last man who died wearing the Stone simply...lingered. He didn't become a ghost and he didn't pass on. But he didn't become a monster, either."

Hermione knew he referred to his baffling encounter with Dumbledore in his death-vision. There were few records of what happened when one died in possession of a single Hallow, but Dumbledore had been what had sparked her worry. One died and was presented with a choice of proceeding into death or arising as a ghost. There'd been dozens of ghosts to testify to that. Tiptoeing along the borderline for almost a year without making a decision, his portrait's continued dormancy a testament to his state of undeath, was something novel. But Dumbledore had wielded the Wand for most of his adult life; they'd theorized he had some control over the effect of the Hallow he'd died within the sphere of influence of.

"And as for weapons training, that's actually fairly irrelevant, isn't it? The only thing you could really offer us is a way home. But that'd be counterproductive to you goals."

"I would not withhold a path home if I had one to offer," Odin said and though she searched his eyes without invading his mind, Hermione could detect no lie.

But the pain was familiar. It was easily enough ignored.

"So you refuse?" Odin asked.

"I didn't say that," Harry said. "If there's a threat great enough that you've called us here, I can't turn away from that. You might say that it's always been my _destiny_," he gave the word a wry twist, "to be a hero. After a while, it becomes a habit. So, ignoring our play-date with the boy in the basement, what exactly worries the king of gods enough to call on a dragon and the cleverest witch in Nine Realms?"

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"You've got that look," Harry observed warily when their audience with Odin had finished.

"I do not have the flare of my son or my wife, but I can make it so that you may walk the streets of Asgard without causing a riot," Odin had promised after granting them time to consider his proposal.

"What look?" Hermione asked him irritably, her mood not ameliorated by the frankly fantastic cityscape sprawling below them. They'd discovered what seemed to a circular plaza that bloomed from the side of a mountain, almost like a golden park in the sky. Sunlight warmed his skin and a breeze such as he hadn't tasted since the isolated grounds of Hogwarts had filled his lungs. Harry'd had a thought it would be almost impossible to brood in this golden city, but Hermione's furrowed brows had told a very different story.

Odin's illusion simply made them unremarkable. She was still recognizably Hermione and he'd seen that particular look of intense focus before. The one that said she'd made up her mind and against all rational argument and experience she wouldn't be moved. Occasionally, such as in her insistence of Snape's loyalty, she was proved right when everyone doubted, but then there were things such as S.P.E.W. Which had been a sadly misguided attempt at activism if he'd ever seen one. Harry's long experience with Hermione gave him the premonition that this was going to be an occasion of the latter. She was rarely outright _wrong_, but that was what made it an exercise in frustration, because Hermione's arguments refused to be countered with the cleanness she required to cede victory.

"The one where it looks like you're about to take a very inconvenient stance on a controversial topic," he said dryly, putting more weight on his forearms as he braced himself against the railing that prevented them from tumbling into space.

"He was talking like it would be _desirable _to eliminate an entire race!" Hermione snapped, crossing her arms tightly beneath her breasts.

"Did you miss the returning the universe to darkness thing?" Harry asked, somewhat gobstruck that _this _would be her interpretation of their impromptu history lecture.

"_Malekith _wants to return the universe to darkness, in the history of the _victors _of the battle," Hermione corrected him. "Weren't you listening, Harry? He destroyed most of his own race simply to spite the Asgardian army, so we can safely say he was an unpleasant man, unless he'd rather they die in battle than be slaughtered by Asgard. Why were the Asgardians on Svartalheim to begin with? That sounds like an invasion, not a defense of their own realm. If he'd had the Aether at hand, why didn't he use it? If he was willing to kill his own people, why not do so while in the grips of this ultimate weapon of destruction? There's so very much that doesn't make sense about this, Harry," she complained bitterly.

"You're romanticizing a force of chaos," Harry said blankly, his mind unable to comprehend her sudden and inexplicable attachment. It was not the most flattering comparison, but he was beginning to think she had a very real weakness for hopeless causes and pointed ears.

Hermione snorted. "Chaos does not build complex societies, it cannot create language, it does not work on the level of civilization. _Chaos_ does not build culture. It does not lead to an army disciplined enough to be a threat to Asgard. Order does those things, Harry."

"Yes, well, in this case order is a very real threat to the Nine Realms."

"You're going to believe Odin simply because we spoke to him first?"

"What happened to the Hermione I knew and loved whose trust in authority figures was absolute?" Harry questioned, feeling resignation steal over him.

"She was told she didn't have the right to exist, because she'd stolen someone else's precious magic to rise from being a filthy Muggle," Hermione said pointedly.

"The Ministry makes one mistake in judgment and you hold it against them for the rest of your life," he tried to tease, but it fell flat.

Hermione was in no mood for jokes. Her eyes blazed with banked rage. "I'm sorry if I have some sympathy for a people who're in danger of being exterminated like rats," she hissed. "Until someone can prove to my satisfaction it wasn't simply their king compelling them or them defending themselves against a Realm that wanted to crush them under their golden heels."

Harry mentally reeled at Hermione's scathing retort. "You know I didn't mean it like that," he said gently.

Hermione glared at him, jaw set in tight lines, but eventually she relaxed slightly, easing her arms from their defensive posture. "I don't want to responsible for the destruction of a Realm," she muttered.

"He asked us to babysit," Harry said incredulously, turning to face her fully. "How in the name of the Four Founders does your mind leap from looking after Loki to the destruction of an entire Realm?"

Hermione gesticulated sharply. "We are voluntarily involving ourselves in a con-no, we are involving _you _in a conflict that already has all the earmarks of a war in the making. It will inevitably explode in our face and we'll be entangled a war again. Only this time, I won't have all the answers, Harry. I could write whole books on what I don't know. And there are things we _must _know."

"Must we?" Harry mocked, rolling his eyes. "I somehow overlooked that I myself am an agent of chaos." He eyed his friend. He and Hermione were hardly like she and Ron, whose rows were infamous, but they'd been living in each other's pockets for years now. A disagreement of some kind was overdue. A sudden flash of cruelness made him add, "And I don't recall you having _all _the answers last time, either."

Now Hermione looked as if he'd struck her. Her lips pursed and he imagined she could have spat acid wearing that expression and it wouldn't have surprised him, but then she seemed to take a mental step back and her shoulders sagged. "I hate this, Harry. The not knowing. It was bad enough when we were learning computers. But this is on an entirely different scale. The fear of making a mistake-it's crippling. I can't dash off wildly, not like you can, Harry. It's like losing one of my senses. Without a knowledge base to work from, I'm _nothing, _Harry."

She peered up at him, more tired and vulnerable than he'd seen her since the first weeks of their exile. "I've never had the courage to ask, Harry, but would you have been my friend if I wasn't useful to you?" Somehow she called to mind a puppy expecting to be kicked. "When Thor talked about Loki, all I could think was how pathetic his life seemed. How small and selfish his ambition was, even though it could have swallowed worlds in scope. And then I went back to our apartment and sat in the dark and thought about it. How many friends did I have in Hogwarts, aside from you and Ron? When Ron...got mad, he was always about with Seamus and Dean and the like. And you, you were never without one or the other of us. But when it was _me_, it was just me, Harry. I was always going to come back to you, because I had nowhere else to go. I know what it's like to not belong. And yet I can't stop myself. There's this cruel voice in my head that speaks in my voice and sneers at Loki. That insists he's not nearly as clever as he thinks he is. I'm a terrible person, Harry," she admitted with the same air as one admitting to murder.

Her jarring subject change had dispersed his own anger. He crossed the distance between them and embraced her tightly, so that he could speak in a low, soothing voice near to her ear. "Hermione. We owe each other so many Life Debts that we're our own perpetual motion machine of obligation. And this might be a little about your insane notions of what constitutes an oppressed people, but it's not about Loki at all. And the last time you called our friendship into question was right before your marriage to Ron, when you accosted me before the ceremony and demanded to know if I was still going to side with Ron every time the two of you had a disagreement."

"You just stood there, gaping at me like an idiot," Hermione muttered into his chest.

"You'd pitched your shoe at me. And then Transfigured your bouquet into a swarm of stinging wasps. I felt entitled to gape. Or sue for assault. Anyhow, don't distract me. We're having a moment. Now that you've spewed angry at me, you're going to tell me what's _really _wrong."

"I said it, didn't I? That I hate not knowing where I stand in relation to everything else. Of not being firmly convinced that I'm on the right side. Of not being the smartest person in the room. And that makes me feel so petty," she spat. "But it's how I define myself, Harry. I hate constantly having to ask, when I'd much rather know and answer. I _need _control, Harry."

"I know. You're quite frankly irritating about it about forty percent of the time, especially as my things seem to keep growing legs and finding themselves in alphabetized medicine cabinets, but it's what makes you Hermione. And if you want to make Loki grovel at your feet and admit his utter inferiority, I will take pictures and text them to Tony. But if it will stop you from having a panic attack, I will point out that Asgardians are likely literate. They might even have such things as _libraries. _Where they keep books. Which contain knowledge. Even if it is biased by imperialist powers," he teased, drawing back so he could see Hermione's expression.

He was pleased to note that he'd successfully coaxed her through her anxiety, though by the hooded expression of her eyes, he might be in for a very dull afternoon.


	14. Contention Against the Event Horizon II

A/N: Everyone continues to be wonderful, both with your praise and your constructive comments.

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Fourteen-

Contention Against the Event Horizon (Part II)

The presence of so much gold and magic inundated his draconic senses with a kind of bizarre tintinnabulation. It was just short of maddening, but Harry tamped down the rising irritation. With a degree of self-reflection he wouldn't have been capable of just ten years ago, he recognized that if he'd been the same person he'd been in school, prone to outbursts of anger, there would have been casualties by now as he lost control of the magic that kept him bound him human form. And that would have begun a cycle of regret and rage that might well have devoured him.

But he wasn't that person. That was what he reminded himself as he tried to occupy himself with people watching. Asgard seemed similar to Hogwarts in that it seemed that most people avoided the library if they could manage it. Hermione and several hoary elders shared the expansive building as if it were the universe and they were separate galaxies, never coming into contact with each other though each ruled a worktable that oxen could have been sacrificed on.

They made for very uncomfortable pillows and Hermione sent him filthy looks when he borrowed some of her texts, but he wasn't willing to leave her to explore the city. The last time he'd left her with an Asgardian unguarded, she'd had nasty bruise that had persisted for weeks. He had been left uncomfortable with the reminder that for all her cleverness and magic, Hermione's flesh where it wasn't protected with magical metal was only human. And humans, thought The Dragon, were terribly fragile.

So he'd dutifully accompanied her to the library and quickly learned that those books available to them here were written in four distinct languages. The written equivalent of All-Tongue, or at least that was what he presumed when he'd read the first several pages and found it to be in modern Queen's English, a faintly recognizable but frankly unreadable tongue that Hermione had studied for a long time before pronouncing it a proto-Germanic language that linguists might have killed each for the right to study, a simplistic rune language that Hermione could shakily translate, and the same complex runic that had appeared on the golden orbs that had brought Odin's messages.

If daunted by the fact that she couldn't read all of the books, Hermione's intense focus on reading through as many of the ones she could as possible didn't leave room to display it. But she hadn't so much as spoke to him for hours and he was really beginning to feel the boredom seeping into his bones.

She had had the mercy to choose a table next to a one of the ubiquitous glassless windows that characterized so many of the buildings. Some magic must have been present to keep the weather outside, but it did nothing to obscure the pleasant sky.

He amused himself by the simple expedient of imagining the reactions of the gods if he were to become The Dragon. Just when he thought he could picture the gaping disbelief of the solidly built but stately woman lingering in the gardens below the window, he was jarred from his partial stupor by sound of a faraway impact. When screams followed it, he shoved away from the table, disturbing Hermione.

She turned quizzical eyes on him, but Harry's attention was focused solely outside.

"Harry?" she asked, but his feet were already carrying him toward the sky. As his feet left the familiar sensation of floor, he let the magic that kept him human go. It was not painful, the shift, but as if he'd been crouched in a tiny box and stood suddenly, needles and pins blazing through his muscles as they lengthened and changed, wings unsheathing themselves from beneath his flesh to bear him aloft. A screech was torn from his throat as The Dragon emerged fully, the gold beginning to truly sing, but The Dragon obeyed his human mind and sought out the disturbance.

It wasn't difficult to locate. Invasions rarely were.

Quick eyes took in blade-like ships that tore into the landscape and The Dragon trumpeted a challenge to them as he achieved speed on a parity with a Firebolt, claws raking across the surface of the ship as he whipped past.

Sparks blazed from the friction, but his claws failed to find purchase; it wasn't like the bone-like armor of the Chitauri whale-beast. With a roar of frustration, he swept out toward the ocean where the observatory squatted, regaining his momentum. Sweeping in a wide circle, he crashed into the ship, attempting to ground it with his weight, but thrusters compensated for the impact and lasers struck his scales, chipping several of them painfully, the splinters of his own scales being driven in to the vulnerable flesh beneath by force of the blows.

Shrieking, he spat a stream of fire at the ship, beating his wings to gain height at he focused the flame. It glowed the hot red of an ember and he dug in his claws into the softened metal. Wrenching at it, he heard the satisfying _skree _of sheering metal, but before he could break it open like an oyster to tear at a vulnerable interior, their weapons trained on him and forced him away, but though The Dragon was a beast, vulnerable to its instincts, Harry drove it back down on the ship, humming magic up from his belly. This time, his flames blazed with blue, the heat immense.

Even The Dragon felt the discomfort of it, but while blisters formed beneath his scales, Harry gouged his way inside, snorting flame into the exposed interior, watching as the masks of his prey blackened and vanished beneath his onslaught.

The Dragon flung back its head and roared triumph and fire as the energy that powered the ship faltered and it began to crumble.

But the roar became a shriek of pain as a larger beam from another ship caught him in the wing, burning through the membrane. It wasn't a harm that would cause him to fall from the sky, his flight too entangled with magic for that, but it was a searing, unexpected pain, when so much of him was so scaled and armored.

Launching himself higher in the sky, he ascended until he felt the air begin to thin, then he pulled his wings in close to his body, hurtling through the air until it keened as it whipped between his horns.

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Hermione silently cursed Harry's mobility and her own unfamiliarity with Asgard. She could make use of the fragments of Viviane's Mirror, but use of it left her blind to the world around her physical body and making use of it was like using a pair of Omnioculars. It took time to search and then focus on a landscape; it was not as if she could view all this Realm without it appearing first to her something like a satellite image that could then be directed with the power of her mind. As a scrying tool, it was unmatched. As an immediate solution, it was somewhat lacking.

Allowing the Cloak's invisibility to slither over her skin, she sprinted down the stairs and then outside, where she found that chaos had spread to the streets as ships shed their own brand of concealment. Glancing upward, she found helmeted guards swarming toward what looked like a ballista, but a streak of light cut through the air and toppled the weapon, several of the guards caught by the falling debris.

_Where would I be most effective? _she asked herself, even as she drew her wand and warded off toppling stone from those at the base of the Tower.

Scowling as several Asgardians paused to look at the way the stone shattered against the magical shield, Hermione made a sharp motion with her wand, peppering them with the fragments. As one ship dove low overhead, she aimed a blasting charm at it.

Her aim was true, but though the underbelly smoldered and the metal was obviously dented, most of the energy of the blast had been absorbed by the blue-lit vents that lay behind that hammer-head ship design.

Harry's roar made her whip her head around and she saw Harry's dragon-self hurtle downward like a meteor on top of a ship still drawing over the ocean; a great plume of water erupted from their impact, visible even where she stood.

Making an instant decision as she took in the destination of the ships, the palace itself, Hermione ducked out of the way to gaze within the walls. With a specific location in mind, the image soon stole away what was really before her. Instead she gazed into a hall teeming with Asgardians marching briskly toward their weapons caches and toward the outer wall. Presumably they meant to stop the enemy before they could breach the palace too deeply. Focusing her intent, she took the familiar twisting step of Apparation and found herself unimpeded by any kind of barrier.

Her subconscious mind filed away the thought that Odin's palace had no protection against her magic, but her rational mind was alive with possibilities and probabilities. She would be most effective here. If she could make it to the outer walls, she'd have a much better vantage point from which to cast spells. She could augment her _Bombarda Maxima _with the power of the Elder Wand; if that failed, there were other spells she could try.

She'd seen a translucent shield rising just before she'd used the Mirror, but she felt no evidence of a shield as the floor beneath her feet shuddered as the first of the narrow ships tore into the palace. _What a bizarre method of attack, _she thought with exasperation as she ran toward the sound, following the trail of destruction with ease. By the time she'd arrived, the ship had opened and Hermione realized that, much like a seedpod, the weapon itself was secondary to the mission of delivering the warriors within.

Though it had only taken her perhaps a minute and a half to make it to the great, columned hall, the Asgardian defenders were already splayed on the floor. In their hands they clutched the melee weapons typical of the Asgardian mode of battle, but thought the shape was odd, she would give an oath that what the Dark Elves carried were guns of some sort.

She stayed her wand for the moment as her mind assessed the masked, anonymous warriors that stood ranged about the ship. They were functional, practical. They lacked the vibrant individuality of the gods, almost clones of each other. But she could see faint differences in the tone of their skin, in the complex braids in their snow-white hair. Behind those masks, there was a people, she was certain of it, one that was even more advanced in their technology than even Asgard.

And as a man emerged last of all from the ship, her certainty resolved itself. For he was unmasked, with a proud, stern aspect reinforced by how tightly his hair had been pulled away from his face, his hair braided into a long, thick length that hung between his shoulder blades. He looked almost directly at her as he surveyed the room, his eyes a tundra blue that chilled her. She dipped into the pool of his mind, almost on a whim, and found only resolve and a wall of darkness that prevented her from prying more deeply without being noticed.

Whatever the original cause of their conflict and no matter her still undecided feeling about the Asgardian approach, it was clear to her that their appearance here only boded ill for the Nine Realms.

With that in mind, she mentally called upon the Elder Wand, feeling the magic waking in the runes on her flesh, but then something impossible happened.

Almost as if he sensed the shift in power, the Dark Elf's gaze snapped to her position. He demanded imperiously in a heavy foreign tongue, but it really needed no translation. _Who's there? _or perhaps _Show yourself. _

Casting her eyes on the fallen warriors that littered the golden floor, Hermione made a rash decision that would have made Harry proud. She attacked, wand wending through the air in a complex pattern, ending with a pointed jab toward the floor at a right angle. Spears of ice blossomed at a right angle to the point where she'd aimed, catching two of the Elves, one in the chest, another in the shoulder.

Then she was whirling through a battlefield suddenly ablaze with the light of their alien weaponry, but the Elf turned unerringly to track her short-range battle Apparation. _He can't see me_, she thought fiercely as she put her back to a column before she silently cast a stunning spell on one who drew too close. _Can he hear me? _In her hurry, she'd left off a silencing charm for her footsteps, for usually it was only creatures and beasts that had keen enough senses to track her by her footsteps. _Or can he sense magic? _

She winced as shrapnel from the column caught the side of her face. Silently apologizing for what she was about to do, she ducked low beneath most of the fire and shouted, "_Bombarda Maxima_!"

Floor tiles warped and buckled under the force of the spell, which caught several of the Elves, but then the unmasked one raised his weapon. Hurriedly raising a shield, Hermione braced herself. But the cry of pain and surprise escaped her lips regardless of any preparation as his weapon punched a hole through the strongest part of her shield. She managed to twist out of the main force of the round, but she still nearly dropped her wand from suddenly nerveless fingers as her left hand clapped over the wound, almost a burn, right across her bicep. It had even seared through the warding on the leather.

_What in Merlin's name was that? _she thought, switching her wand to her off-hand. She was able to sidestep his next attack, though it came perilously close, and she retaliated by conjuring a lash of fire, but her opponent simply stepped behind the hull of the ship as she brought it sweeping across the hall.

He fired three quick shots in succession as he moved from cover and Hermione was forced to Apparate away to the far end of the hall in the hope that distance would buy her time. She had just enough to silence her footsteps before she was forced to move again, but though her feet now landed silently on the floor, the Dark Elf commander pivoted to face her.

He said something again in his ominous language and pointed to her, the remaining Elves opening fire on her. With a snarl of frustration, Hermione switched position yet again, this time landing almost on top of a trio of Dark Elves. But their senses at close range were apparently as sharp as their leader's; one of them clipped her in the jaw with an armored elbow, but she took advantage of his raised arm to trace a slicing hex up his side.

Again she was forced to Apparate. Her jaw ached when she made a jarring, poor landing and she would have continued the fight, but she found that her hasty retreat had removed her as an obstacle. One of the Elves tossed something at her; her eyes tracked it as she kept them in her peripheral vision, but once her brain made out the general size and shape of a grenade, she worked her wand in one of the most complex shielding patterns she knew as she threw herself as far from it as she was able., not able to muster up enough concentration to do all this and Apparate as well.

She was in for another nasty surprise as the grenade detonated and rather than exploding outward, it began to pull things inward as it created a miniature black hole, compressing whatever it could draw into itself. Her brain instantly supplied the information that its energy must be finite and it would momentarily collapse in on itself, before it could draw in the entire realm, but she was forced to draw on the power of the Elder Wand to hastily use a Sticking Charm to seal her feet to her boots and her boots to the floor while reinforcing her shield.

But even under the protection of so much magic, she could feel the crushing sensation and she thought for a moment she might suffocate as all the air was compressed from her lungs, but then the pull faded, the weapon's energy spent. Releasing both her shield and the Sticking charm, she sagged to the floor, panting as she glared toward the door where the Dark Elves had made their exit.

Panting, she forced herself to her feet, but a surge of dizziness almost made her fall and she was forced to stumble to the nearest column for support. _Just a moment, _she promised herself, pressing her forehead against the cool surface, _and I'll follow. _

A/N: If Peeves, Crookshanks, and Mrs. Norris can sense people under the Cloak, Malekith certainly could. Also, dark-matter weapons. I have an issue with this description because they look and act like laser rifles and the main point of dark matter is that it can't be detected by the light it emits, but when giving it consideration, there's no real precedent in the Potterverse for defending against it, so I made the executive decision that your general all-purpose shielding spell wouldn't really be able to combat it. I also have no idea how one goes about weaponizing dark matter, though if they were anti-matter weapons, I could certainly see the destructive potential there.

Also, timeline-wise. In the movie it wasn't clear to me how much time passed between Jane being brought to Asgard and the invasion, but I'm assuming several days.


	15. Jubilation At The Point of Atmospheric E

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Fifteen-

Jubilation At The Point of Atmospheric Extinction

Hermione was unyielding when it came to personal weakness; as soon as she was in no danger of collapsing onto the floor she shoved herself upright and away from the column. She still felt as if she'd recently escaped being crushed to death in a vice, a general sort of ache pervading her body, but she steeled herself to it. After the Cruciatus, all other pain was negotiable. She had little of Harry's natural talent for combat, but she had no shortage of determination and her easy mastery of magic helped to compensate for lacking instincts.

Striding out of the room, she followed the sounds of battle. Hermione adhered to the Ministry-approved list of spells and hexes as, now that she was out of the thick of combat, she focused on stunning, paralyzing, and binding whatever Dark Elves she happened upon. The generally nonlethal repertoire prioritized capture; the only target for which there were no repercussions was the primary, who was publicly stripped of their rights in a Wizengamot session for Hit Wizards were loosed on them.

So far as the magical legal system was concerned, the primaries did not exist, but for every 'nonessential' death, they had to account for it. This mode of training was in accord with her desire to not destroy the last members of a race nearing extinction; several times she was able to Stun an Elf that would have been otherwise killed by Asgardian defenders. Harry might be unwilling to bargain, but for some consideration from Odin, Hermione would be willing to make several concessions of her own. She had a previous obligation to Tony Stark, but she saw no reason why both could not be met at once. Thor had once had his powers stripped from him and been banished to Midgard.

Hermione wasn't afraid of Loki. She had no fear of men who stepped on ants. It was men who stole away human life with full knowledge of its worth that she really feared. She was irked by the way his deception has snatched victory from her when she'd been sure she'd secured it; she thought him pathetic in the old-fashioned sense of the word, in that he aroused her pity, both because what he'd been through was so terrible and because he was so smugly certain that events would eventually turn in his favor, that all his machinations would succeed.

Perhaps being Muggle would cure him of some of that smugness. Being reduced to an 'ant' might teach even a thousand year old god perspective. That was the idea that had been smoldering at the back of her mind, but she didn't know whether Odin would agree. From their interview, she doubted it, for Odin considered Loki's tongue as potent a weapon as his magic.

But that remained a topic for once this invasion had ended. Battles were unpredictable beasts, as she well knew. Anything might happen and she needed to be prepared to compensate for shifting events and priorities. So she reigned in her focus tightly, reminding herself how poorly she'd accounted for herself against the Svartalfr commander. She might have faced an unknown enemy who had the advantage of numbers, but she'd been arrogant in assuming that her shield charm would hold against their weaponry. She'd thought herself so clever when she'd first developed the spell.

All students of Hogwarts were taught basic shielding charms, but one of the hallmarks of a full-fledged Auror was the development of a unique shield spell. Hermione had woven one of many layered complexity, overlapping spells that could turn aside all but the Killing Curse, not even disregarding the threat of physical projectiles even though so many Wizards, even Dark ones, wouldn't stoop to using the same methods Muggles used to kill each other. It hadn't failed her in a very long time.

But now that it had, she was awake to the possibility of it recurring, so she was wary of the weapons of the Dark Elves. Hermione found that there were less of them than she'd expected, given that she wouldn't launch even a surprise attack on a city the size of Asgard without a considerable force, considering how thick warriors were on the ground. Even if it wasn't terrorism but a targeted attack meant to regain the Aether, she still wasn't certain she would have risked not having enough men to create a suitable diversion and still have enough left alive for extraction of whatever they'd risked breaching the palace for.

Hermione had the advantage of true invisibility, but judging by the cloaking on their ships and their remarkably acute senses, she didn't doubt that they would have been able to replicate it well enough. If the recovery of an ancient source of power now hosted by a single Muggle woman had been her objective, she would have chosen to enter Asgard as a thief rather than an invader, much as they had done while hunting the Horcruxes.

It was when she noticed her thoughts wandering in this direction that Hermione noted how much time had passed since the battle had begun and though she'd left only scant minutes after the commander and his escort, she still hadn't located him again.

Judging the hall clear enough, though she pressed herself tightly against a wall to be certain, Hermione thrust her mind through the fragments of Viviane's mirror, allowing it to do her seeking for her. Location-seeking wasn't limited by foreknowledge of a destination, though lack thereof slowed the scrying. People-seeking was much the same.

Darkness obscured her vision as fully as if her eyes had been gauged out; for a terrifying moment she thought that use of the Mirror had blinded her. But the darkness had a faintly familiar character to it, one she perceived once she fought down her initial panic. She was beginning to suspect it was no simple commander she'd encountered. But whatever his identity, she was still unnerved by the fact that he'd either cloaked himself to scying or he was an existence impossible to see through the glass. Neither was a comforting prospect.

If the latter, she attempted to circumvent his immunity through seeking other of the Svartalfar. She breathed a sigh of relief as her 'vision' cleared, snaking through the halls of the palace as it sought out what few of the Elves remained, but though she kept at it until blood began to seep from the places where the Mirror had embedded itself, she could find no hint of him. He'd left his escort since they parted.

Frowning, Hermione gave up her search through use of the artifact, blinking her itching eyes to disrupt the seeking and restore her normal sight. Wiping blood from her cheeks, she continued to trail invisibly through corridors that had once seemed grand but now simply seemed endless. She happened occasionally on isolated pockets of fighting, but the location of the battle had either shifted or the first wave was finished. The dead of both factions littered the halls and Hermione halted thoughtfully, then crouched next to the fallen body of a Dark Elf. Her gauntleted fingers worked themselves gently behind the mask, seeking the catches by which it was held against the face. It took a bit of ingenuity and even more patience, but then it gave beneath her fingers and she pulled it away.

Except for the large, pointed ears, it could have been a human laying still and cooling on the floor. He had been handsome, with sharp features much like the unmasked Elf's, his eyes softened to a powder-blue with the haze of death upon them. But the dead had no personality, they espoused no beliefs. There was little enough this body could tell her, except that it was not large superficial differences that separated these Nine Realms, as all the books in the library spoke of bipedal hominids as being the dominant race of each Relam. Though it was odd to acknowledge that despite these Realms covering a far greater expanse, she'd yet to encounter records of non-humanoid Beings of equal intelligence, the equivalent of the centaurs, the merpeople, or even Veela. _So closely related, _Hermione thought as her steel-clad fingers brushed his cheek, _but still so little able to understand one another. _Replacing the mask that granted such dehumanizing sameness, Hermione rose.

A mighty thunderclap made the very walls of the palace shiver, making the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise.

Hermione worried her lower lip as she stared blankly in the direction from whence the sound had originated. She knew only one being who could wield the lightning that would herald such a sound.

Thor.

Glancing this way and that, she sunk back against the wall and chanced the Mirror again, though she could already feel the fragments digging in more deeply. They never seemed to sink any deeper, the flesh never healing around them completely, but the sensation was like they were iron filings drawn deeper inside her by her magical core, which acted upon them like a kind of magnet.

Unlike when she sought the Svartalfr leader, her mirror-eyes focused immediately on Thor, his presence too large to miss or mistake. His hair had grown longer and he wore a neatly trimmed beard, but it was the expression that twisted his face that made him look most different. Not even when he'd thought his brother was seriously attempting to subjugate Midgard. Somehow feeling almost as if she'd seen him naked, so raw was his grief, Hermione quickly disturbed her scrying by virtue of closing her eyes.

That had been...unexpected. Hermione knew how old Thor was and his stories had hinted at many, many battles. Perhaps her experience in the War had made her cynical, but she'd expected a warrior like him to be intimately familiar with loss, though the æsir had the advantage of far more durable bodies than mere human flesh. So it must have been someone very dear to him that had been killed; the MediWitches and Healers of her world could draw one back from the very brink of death, so she expected no less from the Asgardians. There would be no need to mourn in that case-death was the only explanation for such mingled rage and sorrow.

She was tired, she realized suddenly. Very tired. The wound on her arm throbbed and she almost imagined that every beat of her heart shook her body. But if there was further battle, she could only choose to soldier onwards. Hope, however, told her that no battle lasted forever.

Listening intently, she could no longer hear the clash of weapons on armor. The battle was over. Only the fallout remained. Perhaps Thor's look of intense look had been prompted by the Svartalfar's success. If so, she would need to heal herself quickly, so that she would be capable of joining the pursuit, even if it meant unveiling herself. Though she still doubted Odin's thoughts on complete eradication, she couldn't help but agree that these were no house-elves; they were like the goblins, enemies so formidable that dozens of their lectures in History of Magic had been dedicated to the wars waged, won, and lost against them.

With that in mind, she retraced her steps until she found herself in halls that looked faintly familiar, seeking the room that they'd had their first audience with Odin in and been allotted for the duration of their stay. Odin had offered them a separate room, but Harry's hoard-instinct had gotten the better of him and Hermione hadn't wanted to make an issue of it, so they'd been sharing the bed. Which, as many things in Asgard, was graciously oversized, so she could hardly tell she was sharing the space except for the odd occasion when Harry intruded on her side. Ron was a dear, but he snored. He was also a bit of a cover hog, but Hermione hadn't liked heavy, confining blankets much-couldn't stand any intimation of being trapped. Not after Bellatrix. So it had been a nonissue.

Harry, by contrast, was what she'd call a 'restless snuggler'. She'd been started awake to blearily listen to a murmured apology as he retreated to the opposite side of the bed. Hermione had been too interested in returning to sleep to contemplate whether that was simply Harry's habit, as she and Ginny had never confided intimate details to each other, or whether his draconic instincts were partially unfettered by the his human mind's rest.

His slit-pupiled eyes met hers as she opened the door and she had a thought that it was the latter; his dragon-self's power and immense, restless energy still sat heavy on him. "You're bleeding," he observed unnervingly even before she'd shed her invisibility.

"And you're not entirely in control," she observed dryly, wincing as she saw her wound properly for the first time. She'd explored it with her gauntlets, which was how she'd known that it wasn't bleeding, with the obvious indication of lack of blood splattering the floor, but the Hands offered limited tactile feedback of any kind. It was blackened like an overdone side of pork and now some of the charred flesh had split, clear liquid and blood seeping into her leathers and down her arm.

Harry was at her side in an instant, her arm captured by gentle fingers, but when she tried to tug away she found his grip unbreakable. "Their weapons could chip my scales," he murmured. "I should have guessed what it would do to human flesh."

"You'll shed the damaged scales and new ones will replace them in the next several days," Hermione informed him, the familiar action taking her mind off the pain as Harry examined the wound tentatively. "They're like shark's teeth, really."

"You're lucky you didn't lose an arm," Harry said, voice low and somewhat more bestial than usual.

"My shield charm failed," she confessed.

"I think you're going to have to accept the loss of some potions to get your arm back in working order," Harry said, his tone making it clear it was not a suggestion. "You'll take something, then take a nap. I'll wake you if someone comes."

She didn't have the energy to argue with him, especially as he was suggesting the only reasonable course of again. So she dug into her bag, pulled out the usual flesh recovery potions and burn salve, deciding against anything to dull the pain. She still lacked viable replacements for most of her potion ingredients, so they were an irreplaceable resource for the moment. Hermione peeled off her the leather coat that hadn't been adequate protection in today's fight, allowing Harry to clean out the wound and sterilize it by virtue of mundane Muggle alcohol, even grudgingly giving him permission to take a pair of tweezers to the bits of column that she hadn't noticed flecking her cheek. Then, grimacing at the taste, she downed her potions and went to bed.

-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-

They were summoned in the darkness, Huginn and Muninn croaking from the backs of the chairs in room nearer the door to the hall. Just as promised, Harry woke her and she struggled back into her leather armor, ruined as the irreplaceable Re'em leather now was. She might be able to salvage enough leather from the lower section of her sleeves to patch the ruined section, shortening the sleeves. The Red Hands ran up to her elbows on the upper part of her forearm. Only about six inches was exposed on the underpart, revealing just enough flesh so that the entire word Bellatrix had carved into her arm was completely visible. She'd have rather they completely encased her arm from fingertip to elbow, erasing the evidence of what had transpired in Malfoy manor that day, but her luck had never been particularly good.

As they fallowed the wingbeats of ravens through the halls, Hermione respected the silence of the halls. The palace was always quiet at night, though normally the roar of the city outside would give one the impression that Asgardians did not sleep, rather they fought through the day and drank through the night. But all was silence this night.

They were led to the throne room, Odin sprawled regally on his seat, his eye fixed on something that stood between them. It was an elaborate bier on which a beautiful woman was laid out in state, flowers twined round the blade and hilt of a short sword that was pillowed between her breast, hands folded over it as if in prayer.

"Who was she?" Harry asked when the silence became unbearable.

"Frigga," Odin answered. "My wife."

Hermione's hand clenched involuntarily, she felt more than saw Harry shift at her side.

"It must be devastating," she offered.

"It would be," Odin said heavily, "were she actually dead."

Hermione blinked with surprise and approached the throne, Harry moving closer to the corpse, perhaps to test if his senses could detect any sign of life.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"That is a very clever doppelganger. But it appears that my wife's vanity bested her at the end of her trick; her hair is really very nearly white, just as mine is, though I do not think any of the court have seen the true shade of her hair for these last five hundred years. She is as old as I, after all. Though perhaps it was not vanity and she intended it as a message to me, to let me know she yet lives."

"You're certain of this?" Harry asked.

"I do not know of your magic, but our magic fails us in death, all our illusions fading to reveal us as we truly are. But there is an even more certain reason that I know her to be alive-had she died, the net of misdirection that she had cast over Jane Foster would have also failed and we would now be facing a very grim battle, with Malekith the Accursed in possession of the Aether."

Hermione turned to regard the Queen's flawless illusion. "...but why?" she asked softly.

"That I do not know," Odin answered her. "But Frigga saw all possible futures, though she did not speak of them. Perhaps her death was the key to one of these futures, one that she wished to unlock. I only know that I must trust her and send her off as if this illusion were her true self. This is the reason I called upon you. The time to make your decision is now past. Where will you stand, Harry Potter and Hermione of the Grange?"

Harry sighed through his teeth. "Loki won't trust us," he said.

"Tonight you will not be going to Loki. He remains imprisoned. Should you go to him there, he will know it is nothing more than a plot of mine. You will go to Thor instead, he will be the medium of your introduction. Loki will still suspect a plot, but he also thinks you are a shapeshifter, does he not? He will have little trouble believing I would make use of a convenient weapon. After all, he believed it of himself, though he was my son." Old bitterness was evident in Odin's words.

Harry's eyes flickered eerily in the darkness, not the steady reflection of light like a cat's, but almost as if there were flames behind his eyes. "Thor told us that Loki was adopted. And that he felt betrayed by the manner in which he found out. Why didn't you just tell him?"

It was hard for her eyes to read Odin's expression in the dark, but his voice told the story she couldn't read on his face. He was angered by the question, but it was not a fresh, hot outrage, but rather the kind of slow, gnawing anger that had ate at the edges of Loki's mind when last she'd peered into it. "Does it not occur to you that his instant question of my motives was also a betrayal of _me_? Not even for a moment did he consider that I had never told him that he was adopted because I had thought of him as truly mine since he could toddle. How do you think a father feels, when the son he has raised for a millennia accuses him of political motivation in doing so!" his last words were almost a shout, words ringing in the empty hall.

"I was not a perfect father, as no King can be, but I had never considered my failure so great that I must defend saving a helpless babe and giving him the best home and care I could provide. The idea that there was advantage in that beyond what any parent receives from raising a child is preposterous. In the last heady rush of victory, it was my thought that I could use that child as a bridge between our races. That was true. But it wasn't hours before I realized the foolishness of that. He was a child hidden away; no Jotunn knew of the shame of Laufey. What use is an unacknowledged prince in politics? Should I make the claim, it would be I who looked the fool. Even if they had known, no Jotunn would consent to being ruled by a stunted member of their race. And Loki is well known as a shapeshifter. Most would think it was his Jotunn form that was the disguise, not that it was his true body. I would have to start another war simply to place him on the throne there. No, there was no political gain to be had in that."

"My son may have some measure of cleverness, but he is not so perceptive as he entertains himself to be. It was not because Thor was my blood that I chose him to sit on the throne-it was because, fool though he was, he had won the favor of the people. No cunning in politics can fully replace that, especially for a king whose court is also a rabble of warriors. Loki did not need to prove aught to me. If I woke to my Realm intact and not embroiled in a war, I would have known where the credit belonged. Shared between two brothers, both born to be kings, neither complete without the other." He smashed the butt of his spear against the floor for emphasis. "What he did was not for anyone but himself."

Hermione didn't dare speak in deference to the complex blend of rage, sorrow, and parental disappointment. But Harry didn't share her reticence. "Did you say any of this aloud to him?" he challenged. "Emotions blind us even to the obvious. And it would seem that Loki felt very deeply about this."

"I am not in the habit of making emotional confessions when and where demanded of me," Odin retorted stonily.

"He's your son. You might have made an exception for the most traumatic revelation of his life," Harry replied sarcastically. "Just like you just did. There didn't need to be any weepy confessions of love; I doubt he would have believed you at all in that case. But just like you just told you, you might have told him. It might have changed everything."

"But even I cannot turn back time as I please," Odin told him. "Make your decision, Harry Potter."

"Yes. I agree to help. But on the condition that you agree to explain why you never told Loki that he wasn't your biological son."

Odin made no sign of being pleased by his agreement. "At this remove, he will think it only contrivance. But as you like. The deal is struck." He flung something through the air. Harry snatched it easily. From what she could make out, it was a ring. "Use that to hide your true nature," he said. "It is Frigga's. Not even Loki should be able to see through it."

"You want me to hide what I am? Everyone thinks I'm a shapeshifter."

"But you are not, which gives you a very different set of strengths and weaknesses. I am giving you the advantage of surprise. Use it well." Odin turned his attention to her, his horned helm even more strange in the near-dark. "And you, Hermione of the Grange?"

"Of course I'm going to help."

"And what would you ask of me?"

She briefly considered her earlier thoughts about having Loki banished to Midgard, but she suspected she hadn't yet earned Odin's trust well enough to ask that of him. "I suspect that I'm going to ask many things of you. My request is that you do your best to facilitate answering those questions, provided they don't compromise the safety of your realm or your people," Hermione said earnestly.

"So you try to win many favors by disguising it as a single request. But no matter. I always arm my warriors well; that you choose also to be armed with knowledge can only be in our favor." He beckoned her forward and pressed a necklace into her hands. "This will serve the same function for you as the ring does for him. It will give you the appearance of being a mundane mortal, but should you use your magic, the clasp will unhook itself," he explained. "Keep it hidden beneath your garment," he advised, "the device is recognizably mine." Odin settled back into his throne. "You will find my elder son in a tavern," he advised. "I'd suggest you act quickly to find him. Thor has never been known for his patience."

A/N: I couldn't resist making Odin a proper 'ring-giver'; if you don't get the joke you haven't read enough medieval lit. Which may be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on your perspective.


	16. Seeking the Barycenter

A/N: I know. I didn't make my self-appointed submission deadline. I'm disappointed in myself as well.

The way they want to be written, it's no longer a wonder that Loki is Odin and Frigga's son, but it does make one marvel at the fact that Thor is. Odin is making calculated uncharacteristic confessions in order to earn Harry and Hermione's trust, and as an extension of that, their service, while Frigga is deceiving the whole of Asgard in order to manipulate her sons into cooperating to exact vengeance on Malekith. Thor might be the only genuine one of the lot.

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Sixteen-

Seeking the Barycenter

Hermione tugged out the necklace Odin had given her from beneath the soft blue dress shirt that had visually replaced her Hit Wizard uniform when the clasp had closed. Three interlocked drinking horns formed a triskele worked in a slate-colored metal that she couldn't immediately identify. Tucking it safely back inside her shirt, she glanced up at Harry.

Odin had suggested three separate taverns that Thor favored. They had already visited the first two, garnering some odd looks and even several uncomfortable confrontations as Asgardians challenged them, but most of the patrons had been too involved in uproarious celebrations and a raucous kind of grieving punctuated by endless rounds of mead and enough shattered crockery to make navigating through the tavern a hazard without sturdy boots. She'd assumed by the silence of the streets that their grief was of a more recognizable sort, but apparently the alewives, or whatever was the proper name for the female tavern masters when the drink of choice was mead, had a kind of domestic sorcery that could contain the noise of the patrons within their establishments, likely in respect for Odin's solitary and silent vigil in the castle.

"Do you think I went too far?" Harry asked her as they made their way toward what both hoped to be their final destination.

"When?" Hermione returned absently, marking in her mind the buildings they passed, pressing on his arm to make him turn to the left when they reached the one that the barkeep had indicated when they'd asked for directions.

"With Odin. About Loki's adoption."

Hermione sighed. "He answered because he wanted to, Harry. If he didn't say anything to Loki himself when confronted about it, why would he confess it to a stranger?"

Harry blinked down at her. After seeing him as his realest self, the return of the glasses and his former appearance was something of a shock. Then it was his turn to sigh. "This is why I like Ron. Though I suspected as much. Kingsley used to do the same thing. That sort of, 'I'm about to confess to you what I would never tell to anyone else,' usually as part of some larger plan to make me do something."

"He did that to you too?" Hermione asked with surprise. "I thought he only did that to me when I was being uncooperative."

"I think he did that to everyone he didn't think he could motivate by sheer intimidation or softly-spoken threats."

Hermione considered that, then nodded. "And Kingsley already had the advantage of having us under oath. Although I will admit, ring-oaths are an interesting idea. It would have been useful for interacting with Muggles. They can't swear wand-oaths because they haven't any magic to hold them to account, but if their Oath happened to be sworn on a magical ring that could compel them to keep their promise, it would help ease some of the Ministry's fears about Muggleborn families." Before they'd departed from the palace, both had sworn a very solemn oath to reveal neither the falsehood of Frigga's death nor any part of Odin's explanation of why he'd kept Loki's adoption secret.

"So, Odin, god of oaths, huh?" Harry asked.

"I really wish you'd have read some of these things yourself, you know. He's also known as the Oathbreaker."

Harry's surprise was great enough to break his stride. "Seriously?" he asked.

"Mm-hm. But in answer to your original question, Harry, I know that family is one of your flashpoints. It wouldn't have been how I approached the situation, no, but you got the answer you wanted. And it's done, so there's hardly any point in harping over it, especially when we've more important things to do."

Harry laughed. "What, save the Nine Realms from a madman after some sort of artifact that all but grants omnipotence? We did this in school, Hermione. On a yearly basis."

"Yes, well, that might be true, but I hardly think Voldemort with the Elder Wand was going to be as much of a threat as Malekith with the Aether, if it truly does what Odin claims it will."

Hermione recalled all they'd been told of the ancient energy. Odin had first encountered it so long ago that it was virtually pre-history, but it had recently either become more sentient or worn through its bonds, because it had been able to seep through to Earth and cause an aberration of some sort. Or it had so happened that a gravity-aberration had conveniently formed near a weakness between Realms, but Hermione doubted in coincidences that large. She had dealt with entirely too many self-aware Dark artifacts to trust that simply locking them away was an effective method of being rid of them.

At any rate, Jane Foster, the astrophysicist whose work they'd been watching when they had first arrived on this version of Earth, had went to investigate the aberration, still hunting for her elusive Einstein-Rosen Bridge. Though for a far more personal reason now than before. Hermione had been somewhat shocked to discover the identity of Thor's mortal lover, but only because she'd been aware of the briefness of Thor's banishment. Perhaps it was judgmental of her, but she had known Ron for the better part of her life before she'd married him. She couldn't imagine any real depth of feeling except perhaps lust arising so quickly, but while she might not understand the permanence of their attachment, she could relate to Thor's feelings on Jane's current precarious state.

In the course of her investigation, Jane had slipped between Realms to where the Aether had been isolated and had done a very silly thing-she'd slipped her hand in between the massive stones to probe the sinister red light. Or, at least, that was what Odin said she must have done as he'd shown her a sketch of the promontory on which the Aether had been kept. She'd insisted on having a more thorough grasp of the situation before she would consider anything, so on the second day of their sojourn on Asgard, Odin had brought with him materials for her to look over and had related to them both what he'd been told in his questioning of Thor and Jane.

Jane didn't recall doing any such thing, but transference apparently only occurred through contact with the flesh when it came to a fresh host. Thor, who'd had Heimdall watching for Jane, had been alarmed at her disappearance. He'd rushed to Midgard and recovered her, bringing to Asgard, where they discovered the presence of the Aether. While it was protecting itself and her through extension at the moment, the sheer power was also threatening to burn out her life.

This was the state of things. Hermione wished there had been more information on the Aether, but it was just as elusively described as the Hallows had been. More legend even to the gods of Asgard than reality, she couldn't ascertain what was fact and what was fiction about the Aether's capabilities, which seemed even more outlandish than the Wand, Cloak, and Stone combined.

"Looks like this is it," Harry said, startling her from her thoughts. Hermione glanced up and confirmed that she'd managed to lead them true even in her distraction.

She took a deep breath. "Ready?"

Harry scoffed, then grinned at her. "I was literally a Prophesied Hero, Hermione. This is Tuesday." He opened the door with a flourish and Hermione stepped inside.

Thor was immediately visible. Though he and the two men and one woman he sat with had chosen a private alcove for their discussion, Thor was too tall and recognizable to be easily hidden.

"And I thought our clandestine meeting at the Hogshead was foolish in hindsight," Harry said, apparently sharing her thoughts on the subject.

"You can hardly hear yourself think in here; if they're plotting, there must be the Asgardian equivalent of a privacy spell on that table," Hermione muttered. She really wasn't worried about being overheard, the cacophony of the tavern truly remarkable.

She worried about how best to approach Thor, but Harry solved the issue by leading her by the arm to an unoccupied stretch of bench directly in the line of sight of Thor's alcove and hailing one of the serving maids loudly. While Thor didn't react to the sound of his voice, others began to react to the sight of Midgardians among them, which eventually drew the notice of their target.

"Harry!" Thor boomed genially. "And Hermione! Come," he said, beckoning them to the table. "What brings you to Asgard?" He grew more serious then, though he had already lacked some of the unconsciously bright demeanor he'd possessed when they'd first met him. "I saw the dragon at the battle. I thought it looked very familiar, but it seemed impossible that you would be here."

"Your father," Harry said, slipping into the proffered seat. The great red-haired warrior didn't seem at all fazed by their intrusion and the slimmer blond studied her with nothing more than casual carnal interest, but the dark-haired woman was another beast entirely. "He thought that a dragon might come in handy and Hermione happened to grab my elbow when the aliens abducted me. I didn't let him send her home and here we are. Odin suggested we might find you somewhere like this. We were about to give up."

The woman's brows rose and Hermione tapped Harry's foot with her own, warning him not to overstate things. "And then we saw you here," Harry said smoothly, "but I wasn't certain it would be appropriate to just come up to the table. You looked like you were discussing something with your companions."

Thor accepted the explanation without any visible expression of mistrust. "I see. I am sorry then, that my father has caused you an inconvenience, but your help was truly appreciated. Both today and on Midgard. These are my companions, Volstagg and Fandral. And this is the valiant Lady Sif," he said, introducing the dark-haired woman, "finest of our warriors."

He gestured to Harry and Hermione. "This is Harry Potter, the dragon shapeshifter from Midgard that I spoke of, and Hermione of the Grange, who bested the Silvertongue himself."

"Hardly," Hermione said, with less modesty and more frustration.

But Thor waved her comment away. Sif leaned forward suddenly. "Can a dragon of any kind be trusted?" she asked. "They are greed wearing armored flesh."

Thor frowned at her. "Harry is not a dragon," he said. "He is as noble a warrior as you or I. He simply changes his form to do battle."

There was a faint wryness edging Harry's smile, but Hermione doubted the others caught his private humor.

"Thor..." she said hesitantly, "I am so very sorry about the loss of your mother. I can't imagine what you must be feeling now."

His answer surprised her. "Determined," he said. "Under Asgardian law, I am allotted twenty-four hours with which to seek vengeance against my mother's killer without repercussion. And I fear for Jane, every moment she has to harbor the Aether within her. My father would forbid it, but I will seek Malekith out and be rid of him and the Aether both."

Hermione blinked as his blunt answer and his easy trust. She'd known that it wouldn't take the same finesse that even speaking with Loki required, but she suddenly understood why Odin might favor Thor. He assumed that everyone was his ally until they proved themselves not to be, which was a useful, pleasant habit for making friends. And with his strength and power, betrayal of that trust really did not carry the same weight that it would for most people. "Presuming you could find Malekith and extract the Aether from, Jane, was it? What makes you think you're capable of destroying it?" she asked.

"Because there is nothing that cannot be broken with the right application of strength and force," Thor said confidently.

Perhaps that might be true, Hermione acknowledged silently, but Odin seemed convinced that the strength and force needed to destroy the Aether might well destroy their universe as well.

"You said your father would forbid it?" Harry asked. "Can he do that? I mean, he's obviously king and can do as he pleases, but you said you had a right under law?"

"I do," Thor said, nodding. "And Father cannot tell me that I cannot avenge my mother. Not even the Kind has the right to do that. But he can forbid Heimdall to allow me access to the Bifrost. And I do not think Heimdall will look the other way for me this time. He has no room in his heart for outright treason to his king."

"So what do you plan to do?" Harry asked without any particular emphasis on the words outside that lent by benign curiosity.

"There is one who has already proven that he does not need the Bifrost to travel between Realms," Thor said, leaning forward and lacing his fingers together.

_Loki_, Hermione thought without surprise.

It was all as Odin had said. She could only hope that Harry and she would also be able to meet his expectations.

A/N: I know last chapter I said that Loki was a half-blood, on the assumption that it might be the reason he was so extraordinarily normal-looking, with the exception of being blue, but further research in the Marvel!verse told me that his mother was indeed a Frost Giantess. Although it's quite funny that their switching of the genders of Loki's parents means that his mother's name means 'cruel striker', while Laufey has something to do with foliage. At any rate, that's been corrected. And, also, the fact that the wiki tells me that in Marvel!verse that Odin's mother was also a Frost Giantess threw a whole new angle on the 'how would you feel if you were one of the monsters parents told their children about' conversation. Haven't decided if I'll be keeping that one yet.

Also, yes, exposition of the events of the Thor 2 movie. There didn't look to be a terribly organic way to mesh it into the story, because there are huge chunks of it that would really require a Thor POV to do justice to without doing it all in dialogue, which would make it a very long scene indeed with Hermione's tendency to ask questions.

And, yes, Loki actually makes a reappearance in the next chapter.


	17. The Peril of the Perihelion

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Seventeen-

The Peril of the Perihelion

"Are you certain you will stand with me? If we do this, we commit treason," Thor said, giving his companions the opportunity to voice dissention.

Hermione grimaced.

The gesture did not go unnoticed by Sif. "Something you find displeasing, mortal?"

"Treason is by definition conspiring against the state, usually with the overt intent to overthrow the state or kill the sovereign. I'd hardly call what you're planning to do treason. An ill-planned gambit, perhaps, destined to meet some obstacle it can't overcome, such as the indestructibility of the object in question, but not treason. Though there are enough criminal acts littered in the path of this plan that perhaps it's a bit pedantic to point that out. Although I would like to mention that as neither Harry nor I are citizens of Asgard, we cannot be charged with treason against it."

She received stares in return for her comment, but the blond warrior recovered quickly enough. "It's as if the spirit of Loki decided to join us," he said cheekily. "I could almost believe you to be he in disguise, except that you're not quite the kind of woman he usually turns into."

Harry glanced at Fandrall askance. "He turns into a woman?" he asked.

"When it suits him," Fandrall replied. "Or rather, when it's useful to him."

Harry shuddered at the thought and Hermione had to quash a smile. By virtue of Polyjuice, both of them had experienced being of the opposite gender, but Harry found the whole thing disconcerting at best, while Hermione thought it fascinating but a bit perverse. Though she would never forget Harry's shock when they'd all turned into his doubles and he'd seen his female friend handle his own body so casually. She had seemed to bother him more than the others.

"You want to bring a Midgardian Lawspeaker with us?" Sif challenged Thor incredulously.

"I think that Hermione will be very useful in helping to contain Loki once we release him," Thor told her easily. "And she has a very capable protector," he said, indicating Harry.

"A dragon?" Sif said, her tone reiterating her earlier complaint about the inclusion of a dragon.

"I _am_ housebroken," Harry said lightly. "And the both of us do have names."

Sif scowled at him, but she didn't falter in her dogged suspicion. Which, given the character of the dragons that Hermione had noticed in the Norse myths, which she thought would have at least some accord with Asgardian histories, was perfectly reasonable. But she was also questioning Harry, which was irritating. "Lady Sif, I can assure you that Harry and I won't be a burden to Thor."

"You were brought here by Odin," Sif countered. "How do we know you will not betray us to him?"

"You believe that Odin somehow anticipated that the battle would go this badly wrong, prompting Thor to take this kind of risk, summoning us from Earth beforehand in anticipation of sending us to you? Wouldn't it have been easier to simply restrain Thor, if his intent had been to stop him? He stripped him of his powers once. Why could he not do so again?" That was exactly what had happened, but Hermione gave a snide, incredulous twist to her words and she could see Sif hesitate.

Though she'd meant it as nothing more than a jibe to distract Sif, it did make her curious. From Thor's intent to march into the prison and retrieve his brother, it sounded like Loki had been imprisoned only in the loosest sense of the word. It was no wonder that he'd taken Harry's comments as a reprimand. Most of Thor's power was linked to Mjolnir, but even if Loki's magic wasn't linked to an object, couldn't Odin strip him of his powers? That had been what she had assumed that he would do in her conception of having Loki exiled to Midgard, but why hadn't Odin already done so? That was like placing a prisoner in Azkaban and kindly giving them their wand before slamming the cell door shut. Was Odin himself playing a deeper game? Was this escape, or an escape of some kind, his intent all along? Or did he really have that much blind faith in the construction of his prison? Hermione couldn't so easily believe that of the man who'd sat on the throne of Asgard since humans had been first learning to write.

Volstagg chuckled. "Sounds singularly foolish when you put it that way," he said, nudging Sif companionably in the side with his elbow. Sif glared up at him at the contact, but though she didn't look happy at being overruled, made no further comment.

Thor outlined his plan, assigning each of them roles, which the warriors accepted with a trust in Thor that was revealing of their long history together, especially as he basically asked them to trust that he would be able to keep his brother from hamstringing the operation for his own reasons. And having met Loki, even only briefly, Hermione realized what an act of faith that was in itself.

Donning a cloak, which draped across his broad shoulders very dramatically and did very little to make Thor less distinctive, they descending into the prison. Hermione and Harry wore cloaks of the same slate grey as well, but though both were experienced in wearing robes cut for their body shape, the cloaks had been made for broader male guards wearing armor that made them broader still. Hermione's hung in shapeless folds down her body and Harry's cloak was pinned far closer to his opposite shoulder than it was meant to be in an attempt to stop the billowing of the extra fabric.

"It looks dramatic, right until the moment you knock something from someone's desk as you stalk past," he'd confided to her in a low voice as he'd worked the pin in place. "Or you catch it as you round a corner or someone slams it in a door."

They trailed silently behind Thor as they entered the prison, which was at least subterranean, though it did offer unnervingly easy access to the palace proper. Unless they released the odd prisoner to roam the halls to keep the guards sharp, there was no need for such easy access to prisoners, especially in such numbers as the cells indicated. Harry controlled his urge to point out the security issues, but it was a struggle plainly written on his face.

Rather than immediately approaching the cell that contained Loki, Hermione inspected the opposite cell and the wall of light that presumably allowed entry and prevented exit. She was genuinely curious, but she was also aware of Loki's all-consuming sense of self-importance. He clearly thought of himself as the most interesting fixture of any room he happened to inhabit; it would irk him not to be paid court to before she indulged her interest.

"After all this time, _now _you come to visit me, brother," Loki said poisonously as Thor approached his cell. "To mock?"

"I need your help," Thor told him bluntly, without any pretense of pleasantries. I wish I could trust you," Thor said, in anger rather than despair.

"If you did, you would be the fool I always took you for," Loki said, prowling the interior of his cell like a caged tiger.

There was also a more humanitarian reason for her casually bowing out of the opening confrontation. Thor and Loki thought they had lost their mother. It wasn't a place for outsiders to interfere. But she listened with keen ears, glancing over her shoulder in surprise when Thor told Loki sharply, "Enough of your illusions!"

Her brown eyes narrowed as she took in the changed scene. She'd noted how different his cell was from the others when they'd entered. Each of the other cells was impersonal, clinically white and utterly featureless. How they fed their prisoners or managed waste was a mystery, but it was austerely elegant in design and unlike any other prisoner she'd ever seen or imagined. Each of the white rooms sunk into the walls was fronted by a translucent yellow energy-wall. She hadn't dared touch it, both because she had common sense and because she feared it would interrupt Odin's illusion even if it could do little harm to the Red Hands.

But in Loki's cell, there were the amenities of a bedroom, with handsome but delicate furnishings and books stacked against the walls. If she'd faced the threat of an imprisonment such as this one rather than being forced to relive all her most terrible memories a chilly stone cell where the spray of the sea crashing against the tower flavored all the bland gruel that was doled out twice a day, she wouldn't have taken issue with being charged with war crimes. Some peace and quiet in which to read hardly sounded like punishment to her, but then again, her ambition hadn't yet sent her careening toward the office of Minister for Magic, which was the closest her world came to having a king.

Loki had looked much as he had when he'd been in SHIELD custody, but when his brother shouted at him, all his magic either dispersed or gathered. Which was the reality and which was the illusion was in question as she studied the cell, now replete with ruined furniture. Loki himself slumped against the wall, stripped to his tunic and pants, his hair falling into his face. The wall behind him was scorched black. He was the very picture of a broken man. But she distrusted that. Vulnerability when used properly was as powerful a weapon as strength, especially when used against those helpless against those in need.

Thor softened minutely to his brother, but he didn't immediate change his tactics. Hermione's respect for him built. His genuine good nature could make him appear to be a fool, but he wasn't. He just wasn't nearly so ruthless as she or Loki when the anger wasn't on him.

"You must be truly desperate, to come to me for help," Loki observed. His eyes traveled to Harry and her, narrowing as he recognized them. "Though it seems that there are already those fool enough to follow you. I must have been imprisoned longer than I realized. I did not know that we were now welcoming mortals into the Realm Eternal. Or did you bring them here in the thought that they were to become my cage once I left these walls? Truly, brother, I do not know whether you have become more clever or more idiotic. Though I am flattered, that you thought you needed a dragon's teeth and claws to contain me."

Thor shifted, eyes flashing. "While your schemes saw you trapped here, Harry was defending the realm you would call yourself king of. If you are wise, you will keep your thoughts to yourself while I finish speaking."

Loki minutely lifted his hands from his lap in a gesture of peace.

"I need your knowledge of the secrets ways out of Asgard," Thor said. "I need to travel to Svartalfheim."

Loki blinked placidly. "And what do you intend to do one a destroyed world?"

"I will revenge our mother," Thor told him fiercely. "And I will destroy the Aether."

Loki blinked again. "The Aether cannot be destroyed," he responded, but there was more life in his expression than before.

"You and Hermione are of one mind on that fact, but I do not doubt my own strength. And if I do nothing, Jane will die of it, and it will be two deaths I owe Malekith that I have not repaid in kind. So, what say you, brother? Will you show me? Can I trust you?"

Loki stood slowly. "When do we start?" he asked sardonically.

"Can we trust you?" Hermione repeated insistently when Thor would have moved to release his brother.

"If you cannot trust me," Loki said, meeting her eyes squarely, "you may trust my rage."

It was perhaps the most genuine statement she'd ever heard from him and though her head cautioned against it, Hermione's heart began to invest itself in the reality of the room in shambles and in Loki's grief at the loss of the woman who'd raised him. Biological mother or not, that was a powerful bond not easily sundered and of an entirely different nature than the relationship he would have shared with his father. "I hope, for your sake," she said quietly, "that I never regret trusting you."

A dark brow rose, then his face creased into the familiar lines of a smile. "Why would I cross a girl who treats a shapeshifter capable of assuming the nature of a dragon like a pet? You must have a powerful sway over him."

Harry snorted. "It's not so much that she treats me as a pet, but rather that Hermione only has two modes for people she chooses to interact with on a regular basis. Condescending friendship or agonizingly proper respect. The latter is achievable only with a title like Professor attached, with a suitably remarkable grasp of your field and published scholarship."

"I am not condescending," Hermione muttered in her own defense.

"You are," Harry retorted. "But it's part of your charm."

Thor destroyed the energy field while they bantered and they all took their leave of the prison, making their way toward the rendezvous point. Loki used his magic to refresh himself, so that by the time they'd reached the main floor of the palace, he looked as sleekly groomed as his original illusion had.

Thor's long strides saw them moving through the palace at a rapid pace and Hermione found herself pressed to keep up without nearly jogging. Loki glanced back at her. "Is she really necessary?" he asked.

"Yes," Harry said. "She's the only reason we didn't torture you until you handed over the information we needed," he continued with a toothy smile.

Hermione knew she was no such thing, but she refrained from rolling her eyes. Harry had been nearly at ease until the energy-wall had come down, but then she'd noted the terseness of his movements. Loki had been the mastermind who'd directed the soldier to known her unconscious. His draconic instincts were likely prompting him to rid himself of the threat to his hoard, but he was really doing a masterful job of controlling them. It was only long friendship and familiarity that told her that the edge to his humor was specifically to distract himself from actions his human-self did not approve of.

"People lie, even under the duress of torture," Loki pointed out.

Harry's grin was tight. "I know."

Jane Foster's first action upon meeting Loki in person was a resounding slap across the face. "That was for New York," she spat.

Loki smiled as he turned to Thor. "I like her," he declared.

Jane didn't look at all flattered by his support, her mouth still set in firmly downturned lines.

She glanced at the Wizards in confusion, turning her eyes toward Thor in silent question. "Harry and Hermione will be accompanying us," he said without further introduction.

That apparently didn't please Jane, for her brow furrowed, but she simply nodded, extending her hand toward Thor. He took it and then they were off again, though by the time they were climbing into the ship, Harry couldn't resist quipping, "Was there anyone we missed who needed to threaten you with death should you betray us?"

"Undoubtedly," Loki returned dryly.

Hermione was aware that commandeering the alien craft that had been left in the hall full of columns where she'd battled the Dark Elf leader, whom she now suspected to be Malekith himself, wasn't their final mode of transport in this plan, but she still glanced uneasily at the complicated controls. "You _do _have some idea of how this technology operates?" she asked as he began to prod displays with what seemed to be only chance guiding him.

Thor said something about it being easy, but all Hermione heard was 'no'. "What are the odds that Svartalfar craft have some sort of self-destruct mechanism that could be tripped by accident?"

"Lower than the chance that they have one that will be tripped on purpose should someone try to steal their fancy spaceshift," Harry returned blandly, eyeballing Thor's exploration of the controls warily.

Loki smirked at their comments. "Perhaps I-?"

Thor waved his brother off impatiently.

"So we let the brother who can't operate a toaster drive the ship," Harry commented. SHIELD's incredibly detailed records of the interviews given by Dr. Selvig, Jane, and Darcy Lewis had been enlightening in more ways than simply practical ones. Especially the irreverent testimony of the last.

"You don't drive a ship, Harry. You pilot a ship."

"And if he wrecks this ship or can't get it off the ground, no one but you will care."

"I would," Loki volunteered.

With a hum, the ships engines flared to life and the holographic displays glowed blue, indicating their readiness to be used. Thor was not the kind to tentatively ease into using the controls. Instead he sent them through the nearest pillar and then the one beyond that without flinching.

"Those weren't weight-bearing, were they?" Hermione asked.

Another fell beneath their axe-nosed ship. "I think you missed one," Loki reported puckishly.

"You will all be quiet!" Thor commanded, sending them soaring forward with more confidence as the chance of accidently crushing one of his father's guards lessened.

Next to Hermione, Jane suddenly slumped over without warning.

"Is she dead?" Loki asked, quite casual in tone.

Hermione glanced down. "No," she said. "Thor, I have a question."

"This isn't really the time," the god of thunder said repressively as his piloting skills increased in skill in time enough to stop them from being shot down by pursuing ships that suddenly rose up behind them.

"It's rather important. If Malekith or his predecessors had free access to the Aether, why didn't they use it to return the world to darkness before Asgard's army arrived on Svartalfheim? Why didn't they do so the instant they gained it? If they were the first, if darkness was the natural state of the world and they developed within it, why let any of the younger Realms establish themselves at all?"

"We are going to discuss this now?" Thor asked incredulously.

"Well, yes. You're about to attempt to do to the Dark Elves what Loki is imprisoned for doing to the Jotunn, although in your favor is the fact that you don't have a treaty of any kind with the Dark Elves. I'd expect it should be a rather pressing question to answer before you obliterate the last of a race. One of the _first _races."

"Yes, brother," Loki said, interest clear in his voice, "how _will_ you answer that?"

A/N: Asgardian culture is going to be a sort of jumble of Germanic comitatus culture and Icelandic law codes and whatever else seems to make sense in context. If you are familiar with the Marvel!verse social structure of Asgard, please feel free to share it.


	18. A Prelude to Annihilation

A/N: I hope everyone had a very enjoyable holiday!

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Eighteen-

A Prelude to Annihilation

"I am not holding this conversation," Thor growled as he brought them swooping low between looming rock formations in an attempt to out-maneuver the smaller ships that were pursuing them.

Hermione looked expectantly to Loki.

Glancing back at her from where he stood at Thor's right hand, he raised his brows. "You truly expect me to answer you? How will you know my tale isn't simply lies?"

Hermione raised her own brows in challenge, folding her arms across her chest. "Everyone lies in defending the past actions of their country. But the lies themselves are revealing."

"You are a very peculiar mortal," Loki muttered. "But, truly, there is little enough I could tell you. The wars against Svartalfaheimr were fought long before my birth, in the time when Odin was not king of Asgard, but rather Odin Borson, one prince among three. The Dark Elves possessed a mechanical brilliance unmatched in prowess among all the Realms and they build themselves a culture dependent upon it that outmatched all other Realms. According to the tales, they had possessed the Aether since time out of memory, the treasure of their kings. But never had they used it, for they had no need of it. While even the æsir still wielded weapons of steel, they had made energy itself bend itself to their will."

"If they were so advanced as a culture, why was it Asgard and not Svartalfaheimr which became the dominant culture?"

Loki cast an annoyed glance at her. "If you would be so kind not to interrupt, perhaps I will eventually answer your question."

Hermione frowned at him, but gestured for him to continue with one hand.

"No one knows what began the first war. That is lost to the vagaries of time and Odin and those who lived through that age have not seen fit to remind us what truly occurred. So if there is blame to part out, no one can say to whom it belonged. All we can say for certain is that Asgard and Svartalfaheimr engaged in a war that raged on until Svartalfaheimr was thought to be utterly destroyed. Not simply at the hand of Bor, but at the hand of Malekith, their king, who made use of their towering ships to destroy much of Bor's army."

"Malekith and his father were the first to use the Aether as a weapon, transforming their elite warriors into the Kursed by use of Aether-infused stones. The Aether gave them strength and endurance beyond all measure, but also turned the Dark Elf weakness to iron into a strength, giving them the ability to freely manipulate the metal. The Kursed were even more dangerous than their ranged weapons, but they had a weakness those weapons did not. Just as the mortal suffers from hosting the Aether, their bodies would eventually crumble beneath the sheer power they wielded. The Kursed are monsters out of children's stories."

"And now there is one again," Thor added grimly. "If I had to guess at his identity, he was Algrim, the most faithful of Malekith's lieutenants. It was he and Malekith who killed Mother."

Hermione mulled this over, even as the ship bucked and shuddered under fire from the Asgardian ships. "So this culture was cohesive enough and treasured enough to produce warriors prepared to sacrifice themselves to protect it? Even though that process sounds extremely painful?"

"Any cult can do that," Harry said dismissively. "Stop trying to see value in the enemy, Hermione. Unless you can stop Malekith by expressing your admiration, it's a pointless exercise. And if all that remains of their race is a single ship of warriors, it's already a doomed species, unless they practice some serious gender equality."

"It's still a pity," Hermione murmured. "Any extinction is."

"If it had been the Dark-Elves before Malekith's father, I might have been tempted to agree," Loki cut in. "They were to have been the most talented jewel-workers and the cleverest workers of metal in all the Nine Realms, with the exception of iron and by extension steel, which was the business of the Dwarves. Under Ivaldi, it was called the a Realm equal to that of the Light-Elves, everywhere adorned with jewels glittering in the dim light from their dark sun. But Malekith's father transformed them into the ranks of faceless warriors and Kursed whom Asgard came to fear and subsumed their culture to feed his engine of war. That is all that I know of it."

"Thank you," Hermione said absently.

Loki turned to Thor. "Was it really necessary to steal the most conspicuous ship you could find?" he asked sardonically.

Thor's expression didn't change, but he did stride across the ship and slide the hatch open. Grabbing a fistful of Loki's long jacket, he heaved him over the side before Loki had time to do more than widen his eyes in protest, Thor having cuffed him not long after they'd reached the palace.

Sweeping Jane into his arms, Thor followed presently, leaving Hermione and Harry to exit the ship last of all.

"After you," Harry offered sardonically, sweeping his arms in the direction of the open hatch.

Hermione eyed him, suddenly uncertain about the plan now that the time had come to transfer to the smaller ship that had been shadowing them. "You first. I want something to cushion my landing."

Harry snorted, then caught her about the middle and tossed her out the hatch. Hermione shrieked loudly, but her fall was swift and she was caught by strong arms. "Well, well, what have we here?" Fandrall said teasingly. "A beauty falling from the sky? It seems I might have to commit treason more often."

Her flash of instinctive fear at falling was wiped away by Fandrall's flirting. Humor replaced it as Harry landed hard on his tailbone on the deck of the ship. "I think I broke my dignity," he announced mock-gravely as he rose.

"So long as you didn't break anything else, you haven't lost anything you had much of to start with," Hermione retorted smartly as she disentangled herself from Fandrall's arms, for his hands had begun to wander.

"What, you did not like that, brother?" Thor asked Loki, who was glaring darkly at him from where he'd landed. "I think your sense of humor dulled while in prison. You did not even like my joke with the handcuffs."

Loki had asked for the return of his daggers and Thor had made as if to press them into his hands, only to press the handcuffs onto them instead. It was exactly the sort of slight of hand Loki himself might have done, but when Thor had done it, Loki had actually looked openly flabbergasted for a moment or two.

The time for jesting soon ended, because while most of the ships continued pursuit of the Dark-Elf craft, two of them followed after their smaller ship, which was something like a longboat in miniature given the ability to fly. While complex holographic controls had made piloting the Svartalf creation possible, the Asgardian ship was controlled by a single rudder. Hermione was somewhat surprised they weren't made to raise and lower sails to control their altitude.

"Well, I'll be off then," Fandrall said with a winning smile, leaping somewhat dashingly over the side of the ship to fend off their attacks.

He was blatant, obvious, and still somehow charming.

"You really have terrible taste in men," Harry observed with amusement. "I haven't seen a man that gaudy since our second year."

"My respect for you also took a blow, if you found _Fandrall _charming," Loki commented as he stood more easily than a man with his hands bound should have been able to. "Any chance of removing these?" he asked, waggling his cuffed hands.

"No. Now it is your turn to fulfill your end of the bargain. Show us your secret path," Thor ordered.

Loki gave a put-upon sigh, then took control of the ship. He piloted them toward a distant mountain, then sailed them skillfully into a crevice. At first it seemed that the sides of the ship would scrape against the rock, but then there was the sensation that accompanied travel between worlds in the Nine Realms, a sense of freedom and reduced gravity rather than the tunneling effect of Apparation or travel by Portkey. And light-she had never expected such a thing when bridging space, but thus far it had always been beautiful to travel between realms.

But when they arrived, there was a startling difference between the Realm they'd departed from, which had been golden and pristine. Here, the sun, while by definition not radiating darkness, looked to be in a state of permanent eclipse, and it stared out across what seemed a barren desert of a Realm, stark and pitiless.

"If _I _lived here," Harry commented wryly, "I might be motivated to encroach on other realms too. Why not call it Desolation or something equally welcoming? Please tell me it didn't look like this before the battle or I might be tempted to join Hermione in her sympathies."

"It was a subterranean civilization," Loki said dryly. "Only its warrior caste spent time above the surface. All its great palaces and halls are underground."

Harry tilted his head to the side in consideration. "No," he decided after a moment, "still sounds miserable."

"Then it is a good thing we are here to wage a battle, not to settle, isn't it?" Loki asked dryly. "Now would be the time to tell us your plan, if you actually have one."

"Peace, brother," Thor said repressively, "I have not failed us yet."

And so Thor revealed his scheme, which Hermione actually thought quite clever, though there was a significant risk involved. Harry and Hermione were relegated to a background role, for the object was to induce Malekith to remove the Aether from Jane while they were present without killing her outright, which would mean striking a fine balance of theatricality and vulnerability. If Harry emerged as his dragon-self, that would immediately escalate the violence.

Hermione couldn't reveal her previous interaction with who she now suspected was Malekith without revealing herself, but Thor would likely be considered the largest threat. And she hoped that Odin's gifts would conceal the distinctive magics of she and Harry both. With the illusion of Thor neutralized, they would be given their opportunity. They needed only to take it.

Loki landed their ship and they disembarked, Hermione shifting uneasily in the sands of the Svartalfaheimr.

"Really, Thor, if you keep these cuffs on me any longer, not even if Malekith was deaf and blind would he believe your little farce. And I would appreciate the return of my daggers."

"You never enter a battle unarmed," Thor said with equal wryness, but he did remove the cuffs and return a pair of daggers to Loki.

Loki sheathed them and then said, "Shall we?"

Unlike the desert they'd arrived in, this was not a featureless expanse of sand, but rather it was broken by large, too-regular dunes that she supposed had formed over the collapsed hulks of Dark Elf ships. Malekith's ship was a huge dark monolith on the horizon, unmistakable and none too distant.

They approached via one of those dunes, crouching low as they neared the top to minimize their profile. "Ready?" Thor asked.

Without waiting for a response, he charged recklessly down the hill, Mjolnir striking out as he neared the small detachment of Elves. He caused chaos immediately, killing several, but then Hermione caught her first glimpse of the Kursed warrior. Whereas all the other Elves were near-humanoid in appearance, he was nearly two foot taller and broad, his body concealed by plated armor in a rusted red, horns like tusks protruding from beneath what might have been a helmet or his face.

Hermione wouldn't say the he shrugged of Mjolnir, but it was very nearly the truth. And when he seemed to slice off Thor's arm at the elbow, even she flinched.

Jane scrambled down the dune in her impractical dress and partial breastplate, calling Thor's name.

Loki and the others followed her down the dune and Thor yelled out desperately, "Loki!"

Loki glanced at his brother askance, than took Jane and pressed her forward until she knelt before the Elf that Hermione had faced in the columned room.

"What are you doing?" Harry demanded angrily.

Loki sneered at them, then turned expectantly to Malekith.

"What is this?" Malekith demanded, his speech very suddenly understandable, when before she'd heard nothing but what she assumed was their native tongue.

"I bring you a gift," Loki said, at that moment at his most princely. Arrogant, cool, contemptuous of all other things, because they were beneath him.

"And what would you want in return for this _gift_?" Malekith asked derisively.

"Only a place from which to watch the world burn," Loki said, his voice suddenly alive with vitriol.

"Brother!" Thor bellowed.

"Agreed," Malekith said with finality. His hand extended and in response to that, Jane's body rose as if by levitation, hair and dress billowing in an invisible wind. Hermione hugged herself tightly, for power suddenly began to thrum through the air and she felt the artifacts embedded in her flesh react to that power. She blindly sought for Harry's hand and found his wrist, his tendons so taut she could feel the stress in them even beneath her fingers. His eyes were somewhat wild as they met her own.

When the Aether emerged from Jane's body, Hermione knew a moment of fear that even Odin's illusions might be stripped from her.

The viscous plasma-state Aether seeped from Jane's body, collecting into a deeply red glimmering that hung suspended in the air.

"Now!" Thor roared and Loki's illusion ceased, returning his arm and with it his hand, with which he summoned Mjolnir.

The sky rumbled and the hairs on her arms stood erect as electricity charged above them, discharging itself in an unmatchable force of natural energy as enough electricity poured down upon them in the greatest single strike of lightning she'd ever seen.

Harry's body was suddenly in front of hers, shielding her as a sonic pulse resounded, flinging shrapnel at them. But the presence of the Aether didn't abate.

"Fools," Malekith said coldly, beginning to draw the Aether into himself.

Thor and Loki leapt into action, Loki a sinuous, smooth line of death, his daggers barely a flash in his hands but his enemies falling dead regardless, Thor's hugely powerful swings of Mjolnir allowing him to wade closer to Malekith.

He came up against the Kursed and was thrown away like a broken toy, Loki stepping into the space he'd left, his daggers short reach bringing him in far closer than Thor had needed to come.

Hermione blinked and the tide of the battle shifted; a blade protruded from Loki's flesh and he stumbled back. "Brother!" Thor roared again, charging forward and snatching one of the grenades she'd faced earlier from the belt of one of the Elves.

The Kursed turned toward him as he threw it, but even the power imparted to it by the Aether wasn't enough to combat the sheer crushing gravity that the black hole generated. Like some nightmare they'd abruptly woken from, their enemy was defeated, but the power of the Aether finished seeping into Malekith.

"Look to your fallen," he directed them with no small measure of satisfaction. "The traitor had been paid as he ought to have been."

Thor glared at him as he cradled Loki close. Even though they would have been vulnerable in that moment should Thor really have been their only source of protection, it was clear that Malekith wanted first to see Thor's suffering.

Hermione could not hear what last words Loki whispered to Thor, but it was clear to her even from her vantage the moment when Loki's last breath passed his lips and he stilled; it was punctuated by a roar more bestial than human torn from Thor's throat.

She peered around Harry's shoulder, fingers digging into his upper arms. His eyes were closed as he struggled for control, the pervasive pull of the Aether having increased as Malekith had become its host rather than the opposite.

Though her experiences with Loki had ended unpleasantly on Earth, she'd though him quite pitiful in his coercion. Her sympathy had built a faint bond between them, which had tentatively strengthened as she'd beheld his vulnerability after news of his mother's death. He'd been complex, impossibly so, and she just beginning to unravel his illusions. But now that was over. Loki of Asgard, a prince who had lived a thousand years, would never again have the chance to redeem himself or choose to follow a path into further darkness.

Death might have been a beginning, but it was also an end. The æsir left no ghosts; there were no tales of the souls of dead gods that told her that any sort of hope awaiting him.

A wave of tremendous sadness crashed over her, because it seemed such an enormous waste. Everything about the æsir was scale and grandeur and Loki had been no exception. The sheer potential ended on this barren planet was appalling.

She memorized the pale lines of his face, skin sallow in death.

Something in her mind tripped over the thought.

_I do not know of your magic, but our illusions end with our deaths. _

Loki was not born of Asgard.

He was of Jotunheim.

His death was a lie.

A betrayal.

Something in her mind _shifted_ and awoke.

A/N: I really wish that I was a talented enough writer to do justice to well-done action sequences in movies, but as it's been almost a month since I saw this movie, this will have to do.


	19. Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle

A/N: This is the chapter most of you have been eagerly anticipating. I hope it doesn't disappoint.

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Nineteen-

Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle

Loki was only vaguely aware of the exterior world, his senses as dulled by his illusion as if they'd been swathed in cotton. His brother was in many ways a fool, but he was a veteran of many battles and campaigns. In order to trick that experience, Loki was forced to weave an illusion so strong that it was very nearly true death.

But though his bodily senses had nearly stopped functioning, his mind was awake and aware. This had been an act of impulse, but when the opportunity had presented itself, Loki had only been aware of the possibilities and freedom that were inherent in death.

Thor had already made clear that what awaited after their act of vengeance was only his cell. And Loki was not content to wait in a cage until Thanos returned his attention to him and executed a punishment in no way as pleasant as a dull monotony of books and pleas from his-Frigga. But what use pursuit and punishment of one already dead? Even if Thanos wasn't content to let him escape through death, he would first have to turn out the bowels of Hel to discover that Loki was not among Hel's dead, before he would turn his tender attentions on Asgard once again. And in the time and freedom granted to him, Loki would prepare to meet his foe. He would never again be weak before the mad Titan, never again be brought to the very brink of sanity by a being so in love with Death that he destroyed planets to gain her notice.

He would prevail, through his cleverness and ingenuity, and never again would he be made to doubt his very self.

Thor's arms were almost crushingly tight about him, he aware of them even within the cocoon of illusion. They tightened further as Thor seemed to roll away with him still clutched tight to his chest; Loki felt his face being pressed into the dirt.

His voice was faint, no more than a tinny whisper, which likely meant he was roaring next to his ear. "Hermione, what are you doing?!"

"He isn't dead," responded the mortal girl, her voice no more than a sigh. "But soon that will be corrected."

Loki would have remained as he was and trusted Thor to come to his body's defense, but Malekith spoke, his voice much clearer than that of the others, though he was further away. "What makes you say that he is not dead?"

"Because a Frost Giant should lie dead there on the sand, yet I see only a fallen prince of Asgard," Hermione replied, voice oddly still, though that could have been a failure of his hearing.

Knowing that his trick had failed, fury building from Hermione's interference, he shed the cocoon of near-death he'd spun about himself, throwing Thor aside in order to rise.

But a surprise awaited him. Just inches from his boots, frost etched an intricate pattern across the sand. Eyes that followed the frost would have found it led to a spear, its surface glittering with the same ice crystals. Hermione held that spear easily in her hand, gazing upon him with flat eyes.

His mind tried to divine from whence she'd gotten the weapon, but his mouth opened to buy himself time as well as to probe an enemy he'd never before considered a threat. "You thought to use a spear of ice to kill a Frost Giant?"

He hadn't noticed the girl's companion until his body interposed itself between them and Hermione. "It isn't a spear of ice," he said in a low, careful voice. "That's the seal. Hermione," and his tone turned faintly coaxing, "you'll be exposed."

The girl's expression did not change. "If you stand with them, you will have betrayed me as well, Harry."

"Betrayed?" Surprise faintly edged Harry's voice, but then a realization seemed to steal upon him. His shoulders hunched inward as he leaned forward. "Hermione, Loki hasn't betrayed you."

"He made me believe in his vulnerability and his rage, in the possibility of his redemption. I investigated my expectations in him, only for him to choose not the path of a prince or even a dark god, but that of a coward. He was running from this battle, abandoning us, hiding himself from his enemies by the simple expedient of erasing his life."

"If you were yourself, you'd probably think of that as a clever strategy."

"I am more myself than I have ever been, Harry Potter," Hermione replied coldly. Then, before their astonished eyes, she sloughed her mundane nature and the Hermione Granger he had thought he'd known as easily as she shed the cloak that had been draped about her.

The powder-blue dress shirt and slacks that had been paired with dull, utilitarian shoes stuttered out of existence to reveal leather armor beneath a deeply purple robe that might have sprung from Midgard's Dark Ages, knee-high boots of the skin of some great reptile completing the ensemble. Gauntlets that might have been formed in mimicry of Odin's ravens covered her from fingertip to elbow and a thick, voluminous mane of hair tumbled down her back in an uncontrolled manner except for a hairpiece of some sort that pulled it away from her face. Some sort of glass glittered faintly in the sun about her eyes, her eyelashes looking like they had been covered in a sheen of ice.

"I wouldn't be so certain of that, Hermione. Or am I speaking to whatever evil magic resides in Morgan's Heart? You have so many crimes against you Hermione, that if you were yourself, you would have never been so swift to judge."

"Step aside, Harry, or in denying me my right to vengeance, you show yourself my enemy."

Harry glanced back at Thor and Loki. "Take care not to let Malekith escape," he said.

Face contorting with rage, Hermione's grip tightened on the shaft of the spear. Beneath the frost, the wood began to glow a warm, unsettling red-orange. She pointed her free gauntleted hand toward Harry, then cupped it as if she held something inside. "With these same hands, I helped to raise you up as a conqueror of Dark Lords. Now they will lay you low, Harry Potter, if that is your choice." With that, she let her hand fall to her side and leapt forward, bring a spear suddenly lit with fire to bear.

Thor cursed and Loki felt an instant of fear, but a shadow passed in front of their vision and there was a roar as the spear struck something, sparks flying into the air.

The shadow shifted and folded itself; his mind was able to indentify it as a wing like to that of a great bat, except that it now was subsumed by the flesh of a man. Or something that nearly wore the form of one. The eye that turned to regard them again was slitted, but the iris was the familiar bottle-green of Harry Potter. But that was where many of the similarities ended. The being that stood before them was taller and better-muscled than the man he'd met first as a secretary, his fingers terminated in claws, his head was crowned with horns. And he wore the same garments as Hermione.

"A dragon," Thor said faintly at his side. Internally, Loki agreed with his awe.

Harry withdrew a slim stick from inside his sleeve and waved it in a complex pattern as Hermione tried again with the spear, the sand beneath her beginning to melt but they remained unharmed. The fire defined what seemed to be an orb of energy that surrounded them-a magical shield.

"And they call me the Liesmith," Loki muttered.

Dragon's senses were known to be keen. Harry heard him. "Yes," he said, voice far deeper than the one that had been familiar to them. "We have lied to you. But this is not the time for confession. Be grateful that Hermione cannot wield the Luin of Celtchar properly."

"Why does she attack us?" Thor asked, making to step even with Harry, but Harry indicated he should remain where he was with a movement of his hand.

Loki, in his peripheral vision, noted that Malekith had turned to board his ship, waiting like a great fang sunk in the sand. Harry and Hermione both seemed to see the same movement, for Harry turned and seemed to cast a spell in Malekith's direction, but Hermione was suddenly there to shield him from it, though deep gouges were scored into the metal of the ship on either side of her shield.

Malekith shifted his head slightly to speak to her without turning. "So, you are the sorceress that I fought on Asgard."

"Yes," Hermione replied, "and Harry was the dragon that destroyed your ships."

"Then why would you shield me from the magic of your ally?"

"Because, though your purpose is evil, I have not yet decided you are," Hermione replied. "And Harry intended to kill you with that blow."

"Now would be a very good time for the dragon to come to our aid," Loki said pointedly sotto voice to Harry.

The muscles in Harry's jaws were taut, pale beads of sweat forming at his temples. "I won't transform. I'm almost afraid to move. The Aether isn't like the Tessaract. The dragon _wants _it. Its song is probably the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. The Tessaract offered power of the mind, but this...this is sheer power. And I can barely breathe but for the desire to add it to my hoard."

"How...inconvenient."

Harry grimaced, but it was almost a snarl. "I'll do what I can with Thor; you'll need to do something about Hermione. We can't fight her and Malekith both. At any moment, she'd discard that spear and use magic. There are very few people as prepared to combat the Dark Arts as Hermione; if her morals fail and she decides to use them, then you'll need to start praying to a real god for help."

"What has happened to her?" Thor demanded, they being granted a brief reprieve as Hermione and Malekith held an unsettling discussion not twenty feet from them.

"Just as she said, she was emotionally invested enough in Loki to consider what he did a betrayal. It's why I'm asking you to deal with this, Loki, rather than Thor, who I could trust not to kill her simply because it would be more expedient to do so rather than returning her to herself. It's your blood that's needed."

"My blood?"

"You see her hairpiece, diadem, what have you-there is a ruby set in the back of it. Its name is Morgan's Heart. And it's what is controlling her at this moment. It can only be satiated by the blood of the betrayer."

"Literally or metaphorically?" Loki quipped.

Harry glanced to her and some of the tension briefly eased out of his face. "You and Hermione are truly alike."

"Even your mode of speech has changed," Loki couldn't help but observe. "Both of you."

"Hermione has had training as an orator of sorts; at the moment, I'm having to think very hard on what it is I want to say. Dragons don't have a particularly strong grasp of English. But enough talk." His boots shifted in the sand and suddenly he wasn't standing next to them, instead appearing with a noise like to the sound of a whip next to Hermione and Malekith, catching Hermione by her robes and tossing her aside.

With another whipcrack noise, Harry was at their side again, eyes narrowed in concentration. "Don't let her touch you with those gauntlets," he commanded. "Unless you want luck to turn against you." Then he was gone again, magic pulsing through the air as he reappeared, drawing in the air with large gestures, an enormous serpent of fire pooling from it tip. The snake struck forward, wrapping itself in a constrictors grip around the ship, but it lasted only moments before a surge of red energy ran the length of the hull and it exploded in a flurry of sparks.

Thor stopped gawking as it did so and charged forward, electricity building along Mjolnir's length, thunder booming as he swung the hammer forward.

Loki turned to his own battle, Hermione now standing behind him. The flames that wreathed her spear were now burning with blue heat and the sand beneath her feet was already beginning to melt. But he now saw what Harry had meant. Her grip on the spear was obviously unpracticed, the weight of its considerable length distributed awkwardly. If he'd had a sword or a weapon of equal length, he could have knocked it out of her hand with ease and probably broke her wrist in doing so.

If the spear hadn't been on fire, he probably could have disarmed her with equal ease, but though she showed no discomfort from the flames, he could feel the heat of them from where he stood.

"So you are a sorceress," he observed.

"Witch, actually," Hermione responded, words clipped. "And you are a habitual traitor."

Loki nodded mock-thoughtfully. "That might be so," he responded lightly. "At least from your perspective."

Hermione sneered. "Your perspective has no merit."

"And what right have you to judge that? Have you never failed to live up the expectations of your companions?"

The ugly twist of emotion didn't leave her face, nor did the hardness leave her eyes. "Everything I have done, I have done in the service of the greater good, rather than my own personal gain. You are a child who cannot see beyond his own suffering."

"Rather than a witch," Loki said, knowing that his strategies worked best against an opponent distracted or capable only of shallow observation, "I might well call you a heinous, judgmental bitch. And I doubt I would be the first."

Hermione frowned, the spear in her hand responding to her emotion by flaring white-hot. "Your opinion is noted," she snarled as she stepped forward and disappeared, reappearing above his head to bring the spear swinging down like it was an axe. Loki fluidly sidestepped, using the flaring of flame to cloak parting out into several doppelgangers. Each of them took a different position in a loose circle about the witch. Loki himself did not join the gathering, instead wrapping himself in a veil of inconspicuousness. Against a distracted opponent, it was as good as invisibility.

One of his doppelgangers _tsk_ed reproachfully. "Temper, temper," he said. "How can we come to an understanding if you keep swinging that thing about wildly?"

"I am not interested in coming to an understanding," Hermione said, "but I have no need of the spear to destroy you." She released the shaft and the spear blazed wildly for a moment before blinking out. "In fact, you might have considered it a hobble."

She pulled from her sleeve a slim stick much like Harry's, only this one had finer craftsmanship than the one he'd wielded, which had been little more than a partially peeled stick. Muscles in his legs tensing, Loki watched with eagle-keen eyes for the little tells that broadcasted the intentions of an opponent with a physical weapon. But as two of his doppelgangers met gruesome ends in bright flashes of light, he quickly realized that facing another combatant who used magic was a very different exercise than most of the battles he was accustomed to.

Still, Hermione couldn't seem to discern that none of doppelgangers were real, instead choosing to eliminate each of them in a fruitless hunt for his true self.

Loki shifted shape to be more inconspicuous, though there was little enough wildlife naturally occurring in the harsh desert landscape. Still, his bronze wings were nearly the same shape as the sand, the soft feathering around the edge of the wings of his moth-shape making his flight nearly silent, though Hermione had revealed no evidence of enhanced senses.

Two of his doppelgangers rushed Hermione at the same time, one of their daggers opening a long cut along her cheekbone, forcing her head back so that she wouldn't lose an eye to it. While at a distance Hermione had been a lethal force, within a close-range situation, his doppelgangers were quicker and stronger than Hermione, one driving a knee deep in her unprotected abdomen. A follow-up blow to her neck brought her to her knees, but she wheezed an unintelligible word and even though she couldn't make use of her stick-he supposed she probably called it a wand-light flashed and something quite nasty occurred to his doppelganger, gutting it.

The real Loki landed on Hermione's thick hair, his legs finding purchase on the twisting strands. He walked over to the ruby that Harry had mentioned. This close and with his sensitivity to sorcery, he could sense the magic that lay over it like a shadow.

Risking a moth-limb, he probed the surface and found it only a ruby. The magic was internal, giving it a kind of sinister sentience, but all its attention was focused inward on its host. He contemplated removing it, but when he tried to slip another limb between the red gold it was set in and Hermione's hair, he couldn't breach the space that was visible between them.

His multifaceted eyes made glancing up needless, but his brain couldn't fully understand all the input of his eyes, so he had to shift his attention to the battle upon which the fate of the world was depending. Hermione still combated his doppelgangers, but they were learning her combat patterns and each was surviving longer. Her weakness at hand-to-hand combat might as well have been a gaping wound for them to exploit and they did so, all the while engaging her in dialogue to keep her mind occupied, though Loki doubted she would have been able to feel his slight weight clutching at her wild hair.

They had thus far prevented Malekith from leaving, but Harry's movements had shifted, becoming less human, less controlled, more brutal. Loki could no longer imagine how they had thought him a shapeshifter; the truth of the dragon beneath the disguise was obvious. Loki grimly contemplated what might happen should a dragon claim the Aether. No matter how reasonable Harry had appeared, he remained a dragon and the Aether remained a potent force of destruction.

Thor was struggling against a force that he couldn't defeat through brute force, but he'd turned his attention from Malekith to the ship, which was already looking faintly charred around the edges but still fully functional.

Fluttering away from Hermione's hair, Loki returned to his human-self, dragging one of his daggers across the palm of his hand. Hermione whirled to face him as she became aware of his presence and Loki acted quickly, pinning both her arms to her sides by virtue of dragging her close to his own body and wrapping his arm around her in a caricature of an embrace, bringing his bloodied hand up to smear his blood across the surface of the jewel. "Let us hope," he whispered to her as she struggled, "that your magic is as frustratingly literal as most."

She stilled. "Oh no," she said in a very small voice. "No, no, no," she chanted.

Loki drew away cautiously. Hermione had her eyes screwed tightly shut and her gauntleted hands dug into the flesh at her temples. "Please, Harry," she gasped. "She still wants..."

Loki materialized a doppelganger at Harry's side. "You're needed for a moment," he said pleasantly.

Barely human eyes rolled toward him and understanding was only sluggish, but Harry was suddenly at Hermione's side. "Blood," Hermione said in a broken sentence. "She wants-"

Harry took in the situation immediately and before Loki could proffer a knife, Harry's claws were scoring a line across his palm and he copied Loki's earlier gesture, except that he didn't trap Hermione's arms to her side as he pulled her close in a gesture of comfort and reassure.

Hermione's eyes fluttered open, shamed but intent. "Malekith," she said.

"Yes," Harry agreed and some understanding passed between them.

"The dragon?" Hermione asked, obviously drawing herself together.

"Not a good idea."

Hermione nodded. "Cripple the ship with Caladbolg?"

"Better idea," Harry said after a pause, smiling, which revealed teeth not quite human.

He turned back toward the battle and held out his right hand after slipping his wand back up his sleeve, making as if he was unsheathing an offered weapon. Something flickered into existence in his scaled hand, and he kept pulling it from the air until a massive two-handed great sword had fully materialized.

"The two of you ought to start considering how to defeat an omnipotent enemy," he growled as he strode forward, shifting his grip on the weapon.

Loki turned toward Hermione and met her brown eyes, which were edged with panic but filled primarily with determination. "How good are you at thinking on your feet?"

A/N: What say you, readers? A Harry P.O.V. next chapter detailing he and Thor's fight while Loki and Hermione were otherwise engaged? I could have played out Hermione's mind control for more angst, but most magical artifacts in folklore really are defeated either by something startling literal or some bizarrely unknowable set of rules. After a thousand years, I have faith that Loki would have noticed this.


	20. Position and Momentum

An Interlude Between Hermione and Loki, inspired by one of the deleted scenes from Thor:

"What beast are the horns on your helmet supposed to be from?" Hermione asked.

"My brother calls them cow's horns," Loki responded easily, "which is only fair, I suppose, given that his helm is adorned with chicken wings."

Hermione blinked, considered the shortened, stubby feathers of the stylized wings, then giggled, because while she was certain Thor would say they were from an eagle or other such noble bird, the primaries gave the lie. "Well, that makes a certain amount of sense. I was wondering what a Nordic deity was doing with horns from what appears to be a water buffalo, a creature native to India, crowning his helmet, but if a cow...may I ask how you came to be associated with a symbol naturally associated with fecundity? Or would that be prying?"

A/N: I really do find Loki's helmet monumentally cool, but part of me-the irritatingly literal part not concerned with the fact that design can do as it pleases-kept prodding at me. Odin's helmet is obviously ram's horns and Thor is probably supposed to be eagle's wings, but I could not think of a single creature native to anywhere near Europe. My first thought was Africa and one of their many-splendored deer relatives, such as an gemsbok, but after looking at some taxidermy mounts, the curve and shape of the horns look awfully like a water buffalo's. Although the gemsbok comes awfully close.

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Nineteen Cont'd-

Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle:

Position and Momentum

The Dragon was awake with need, something as deep and startling and all-consuming as that first moment when lust becomes more than a word or abstract concept.

Harry hadn't had to combat the like of it, not even when they'd first spilled onto those desert sands years ago, but here they were in a desert more barren than he'd ever imagined, facing an enemy who'd all but made himself a god, and he could feel The Dragon shifting restlessly beneath skin that had become all too confining.

When they'd arrived in this world, from his first moments, Harry had had primacy over The Dragon. It had slipped, faltered, but never had to been actively challenged like this. He'd assumed that it would be similar in nature to the Tessaract, being another object of power, but The Dragon disagreed.

The Tessaract was sly, bewitching, but its power sung a sweep refrain that sounded to draconic senses like deception. It was a siren-song, easily ignored, but the Aether called out to The Dragon with a heady melody of triumph, the sound of magic born of force and strength.

The Dragon would like nothing better to add it to his hoard, but no matter that Harry tried to divert himself with wry humor in imagining presenting the Aether to Hermione like a poorly chosen birthday present, he was still nearly afraid to move for fear that he would be human one moment and fully dragon the next.

Frigga's ring was like a shackle, weighing down the hand hidden in the folds of his cloak. He was so tightly focused on keeping himself in check, he didn't notice the way Hermione had stiffened in his grip. Even if he had, he might have dismissed it at first. Hermione had a very narrow margin of tolerance for what she considered entrapment-and he'd recently thrown himself bodily over her to protect her from the backlash of Thor's strike, which was the trigger associated with her Cruiciatas trauma. She couldn't help but react when people pinned her down or loomed over her prone body threateningly if she was pinned to the ground; once, she'd frozen in a kind of shock-state, but her trainer in the Hit Wizards had mercilessly transformed the reaction to one of violence.

With someone she knew and trusted, she could bear it for a time, but Harry had always been able to sense when her discomfort shifted toward blind panic and engrained response.

But this was a different, foreign kind of stillness-only too late did he notice it, when Hermione splayed her hand open wide and the Luin, its black shaft coated in the frost of a magical binding, materialized in all its terrible glory. Hermione had done the frost-work binding herself, because the Luin had killed former wielders, either through carelessness in battle or through its flames.

"Wha-?" he couldn't force the question through lips that were still and numb, as if he was already mentally shifting in The Dragon.

Then Hermione had Disapparated, thrusting the spear downward powerfully to where Thor had knelt, grieving, over the body of his brother. Thor reacted to the attack before the spear could impact, rolling he and his brother both clear, but where the tip of the spear touched the ground, magic bled across the sand, staining it white with magic-born ice. If there was no other indication of wrongness, that would have been enough. Hermione didn't allow magic to spill from her bindings. Her loose ends weren't simply tied off, they were neatly trimmed and made uniform.

The show of power was impressive, but it was also careless. The binding would soon loose itself as the Luin did what it did naturally-set things aflame with a careless disregard for friend or foe.

"Hermione, what are you doing?" Thor roared at her. It was a reasonable question; had even been the same question Harry had been trying to ask.

But while The Dragon concurred with the need to kill Malekith, it saw in Thor a competitor for the only treasure that had been of interest to him since they had arrived. Thor wanted to destroy the Aether and Thor's bloodkin had upset Hermione, so The Dragon found a very simple solution to a complex problem. All of them would die in the sand and The Dragon would induce his hoard to accept the Ather; the concept of using it as a weapon, of arming himself with the Aether, was foreign to The Dragon.

"He isn't dead," Hermione said, but there was something distinctly off, distinctly absent in the tone. Hermione did cold rage very well, but this was different. Empty. "But soon that will be corrected."

Harry couldn't coax his brain into a mode coherent enough to guess at why Loki had pretended to die, but The Dragon was near enough the surface now that he could hear the music of his hoard. Hermione was dimmed, muted by a terrible lullaby that originated from the Heart. It was harsh, insistent, strident as a military march, yet still his mind wanted to call it a lullaby, for that was what The Dragon usually heard it as. A soft, relaxing crooning that was almost words, a melody that reassured Hermione that power was hers for the taking, that it would give her everything and protect and avenge her of any betrayal. It was normally subtle and from the brief descriptions he'd read in Hermione's books on the artifact, that shouldn't have changed with its awakening. It should support her in her vengeance, reinforce that it was necessary, not change her behavior patterns so abruptly.

Hermione's vengeance was not necessarily swift, but it had a common thread-Hermione never did anything in such a way that she could be prosecuted for it in a court of law. From the curse embedded in the parchment that the members of Dumbledore's Army had signed to a corrupt but untouchable Hit Wizard who had happened to stumble into an entire clutch of manticores when Hermione had subtly goaded his pride while on a mission. That was how Hermione preferred it, that they had all brought the punishments on themselves. This-this wasn't Hermione.

"What makes you say that he is not dead?" the Dark Elf-Malekith-asked. If he'd retreated immediately to his ship, no one might have been able to stop him, but he'd lingered to gloat. As soon as Harry was confident he could act without razing everyone but Hermione, he'd turn that confidence against him just as Smelt had taken advantage of their arrogance.

"Because a Frost Giant should lie dead there on the sand, yet I see only a fallen prince of Asgard," Hermione replied to the question without ever taking her glassy eyes from Loki.

From the moment she'd made her pronouncement, Harry hadn't truly doubted that Hermione was correct, but Thor's face was a complex welter of emotion as his brother rose as gracefully and carelessly as if he was a cat just roused from a nap rather than someone who'd just tried to dupe his bloodkin into believing he was dead. He even had a suitably pithy comment as he looked on in disdain. "You thought to use a ice to kill a Frost Giant?"

Carefully edging between the two parties, he confided a warning through inflexible lips. "It isn't a spear of ice. That's the seal." He turned his attention back to Hermione and put effort into approximating his usual tone, the one he used to coax Hermione into things she found silly. It was usually accompanied by what Ginny described as his 'I have been burdened by the world, please pity me' look, but he was losing control of some of the more human expressions. "Hermione," he said, watching those still, dead eyes, mind racing as he thought of how to sway her from this course. "You'll be exposed," Harry tried, eyes dropping meaningfully lower, where Odin's pendant rested.

She didn't react at all the comment, not even to sneer at him. "If you stand with them, you will have betrayed me as well, Harry."

Harry blinked, surprised by her sudden stance of implacable 'my side or theirs.' Excepting for that confrontation just before she'd married Ron, Hermione rarely made such blunt demands for him to choose sides. Other people, yes, but not him. Except when it came to their respective spouses, they were so close they simply assumed that they happened to be on the same side. "Betrayed?" he asked. "Hermione, Loki hasn't betrayed you." She'd known full well just who and what he was from her brief foray into his mind. She could still do so, discover why he'd decided that the illusion of death ought to serve him well.

"He made me believe in his vulnerability and his rage, in the possibility of his redemption. I invested my expectations in him, only for him to choose not the path of a prince or even a dark god, but that of a coward. He was running from this battle, abandoning us, hiding himself from his enemies by the simple expedient of erasing his life." There was something terribly clinical about the pronouncement, which Hermione really should having been shouting at him, but her voice was more controlled than he'd ever heard it.

"If you were yourself, you'd probably think of that as a clever strategy," Harry said, trying for humor and failing miserably.

"I am more myself than I have ever been, Harry Potter." And if there was ever a line to give exactly the opposite impression, it was this one. But his jaw clenched as Hermione either revealed herself intentionally or the magic in Odin's necklace failed. His eyes didn't need to linger on the artifacts, because after all these years, they had finally become associated with his mental image of Hermione as she was.

"I wouldn't be so certain of that, Hermione," he said. "Or am I speaking to whatever evil magic resides in Morgan's Heart? You have so many crimes against you Hermione, that if you were yourself, you would have never been so swift to judge."

"Step aside, Harry, or in denying me my right to vengeance, you show yourself my enemy." This was almost becoming a caricature as she delivered those hollow, soulless lines. Hermione would have had a much cleverer retort; she always seemed to know where there was a weakness for her barbs to exploit.

If the situation weren't so desperate, Harry might have had to laugh. Once the battle ended and the thrice-damned Aether was done away with, he fully intended to. "Take care not to let Malekith escape," he growled to the two æsir, sensing that the Heart's meager store of dialogue would soon be spent and it would try to wield the Luin against them. At least there was relative safety in that. He didn't want to contemplate facing a Hermione capable of her full repertoire of spells without her very certain sense of morals to keep herself in check. Even with The Dragon edging out his human-self, he could think of several spells that would have seen Loki truly dead or in terrible agony far sooner than the Luin in the hands of one Hermione Jean Granger, who really had broken her nose when she'd somehow managed to trip over the long shaft.

With growing incredulity, he watched her deliver her next line with all the poise of an actor in a Hollywood version of a Shakespearean production. It was almost as bad as Loki's burdened with glorious purpose speech, except that he liked Hermione a great deal better than he did Loki, so he hoped that she would emerge from the control of Morgan's Heart with no memory of the fact that she'd delivered outright melodramatic drivel like that.

No matter that it was partly true in substance-Hermione _was _the reason they had remained hidden for so long in their pursuit of the Horcruxes-and the fact that Hermione wasn't above a little self-congratulatory praise remained, but _still_.

The Luin was glowing, as if the metal was being heated in a forge rather than resting in her hand. It would only be moments before Hermione would strike.

Harry was not the Occlumens that Hermione was, but he had always been sufficiently capable for his needs. He pressed The Dragon down, knowing that he wouldn't be able to assume his full form unless all looked hopeless and Thor and Loki's probable injury or death would be sufficiently justified by need. It hadn't been so overwhelming until Hermione, his hoard, had slipped out of balance. Perhaps because he was so linked to the state of his hoard through The Dragon, he wasn't entirely free of Morgan's Heart either. Harry could only hope that Loki would be able to quell the jewel's pull, for he didn't trust himself not to turn against the other two and until he felt secure in the knowledge that The Dragon wasn't going to slip free, his actions would have to be constrained. 

The thrust Hermione made with the spear was so obvious that even he was capable of anticipating it, slipping off Frigga's ring for fear of destroying it, his wings flaring about him like tangible shields to deflect the wall of flame she brought against them. With eyes suddenly much clearer, able to pick out the minute scratches the wind-blown sand had left on the glass lenses, he saw that he and Hermione were now quickly tipping toward being liabilities rather than assets.

They were running out of time, but if they couldn't defeat Malekith outright while divided, he thought with grim, determined humor that the show they were putting on might keep him distracted through the moment of alignment.

-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-[-]-

_Imperius_ could be beautiful in its insistence, sweet as the breathless gasp of a lover caught in the grips of ecstasy begging for a mutually pleasurable outcome, cunning in its lulling of not all choices, granting a twisted sense of freedom in those connected to the embedded commands. Not to say that it could not be brutal, but when cast properly, it was abominably difficult to escape from, unless one was Harry.

Hermione was not Harry. It had taken her a long time to be able to escape _Imperius, _especially during training exercises where the curse was administered by instructors she trusted. Despite what Harry had teased her about when she'd first protested the path of complete elimination that the Asgardians had pursued in regards to the Dark Elves, Hermione respected and trusted authority figures. When she'd failed the exercise for the third time in a row, Harry had tried to cheer her on by telling the instructor that this was _Hermione_-they should just disregard the curse and tell her what they wanted directly. If she didn't find the command outright silly, she would do it regardless.

This had seemed to spark an understanding of the issue in her instructor, but rather than approaching her cloaked in the illusion of an enemy, they'd only pressed her harder. And Hermione's fear of failure had turned out to be greater than the respect she held for her instructors. Harry's description of throwing off _Imperius _seemed to make it clear that his ability to do so was directly related to innate intractability when presented with a direct order. Hermione took a different approach, because no matter how badly the Ministry had once betrayed her expectations, she wanted to believe in the authority of government and desired to believe that rule for the good of all its citizens was the fundamental _raison d'être _of such bodies.

She subtly deflected _Imperius _commands by use of her Occlumency, which was a discipline meant to combat Legilimancy, but could be used to combat mental intrusion of any sort.

Harry's Occlumency was an odd form-he used the ironic process theory, trying tremendously hard not to think of brightly colored hippogriffs prancing in parade. It was a bizarrely specific image. To this day, Hermione had no idea who had suggested it to him, but it was very difficult use Legilimancy effectively against him. Others used more standard images, such as citadel-imagery of stone or other elemental walls. Snape had been the only person Hermione had ever heard of able to make use of simple absence of walls, able to embed memories within other memories to hide and protect what he most valued. She still shuddered to think of intentionally allowing intrusion so far into her mind.

Hermione made use of a more complex mental image for her Occlumency. Elemental defenses were all well and good, the easiest barriers to erect, but they were also the most easily combated by Legilimins. Stone broke, fire was quenched, water evaporated, winds quieted. Hermione, by contrast, made use of the one place where she had felt more safe during her childhood, one that she had been able to nearly navigate with her eyes closed, so engrained had it been on her mind.

The Hogwarts library. Her memories were pressed between the pages of innumerable books, safe against intrusion except through virtue of dedicated searching, for while the books could be mentally summoned, the associations between the books and the memories within were clear only to Hermione herself. Her eidetic memory meant that most of the books were as complete as they were in the true library.

When she'd first felt the stirring of the Heart, Hermione had done the Occlumetic equivalent of sheltering in place, slamming shut the doors of the library and barring herself inside, but something had caught at her wrist as she'd slipped inside. With the surety of mental existence, she'd slammed the doors regardless, losing the part of her arm that had still been outside the doors. She'd regained it as soon as the doors had sealed shut, but she'd cursed the relaxation in mental discipline that she'd allowed herself in the years in this world, where once she would never have been caught so vulnerable.

She tried not to dwell on what spells and resources the Heart had managed to acquire, instead concentrating on how badly she'd panicked. Trying to unseal the doors didn't avail her anything. It wasn't a real place, so it wasn't as if she could actually pace through the room, nor did she exist within the room in a way that meant she physically interacted with the boots, which meant she could only pull the relevant books from the shelves, recalling the passages she'd read on the Heart. If she'd kept the doors open, she could have controlled Morgan's Heart to an extent, directed and put off her revenge or thwarted the Heart's intent. Instead, she'd trapped herself because she'd lived in fear of the Heart for so long.

She could only wait, the memories being generated outside the libraries walls lost to her until the doors could be opened. So she lingered there, struggling against a trap of her own making.

She trusted Harry would free her, but in a battle this important, she couldn't forgive herself for such a mistake.

Self-hatred was already beginning to ferment when there was the faint sound of the door unlocking. Hermione threw herself against them, expecting to emerge into something far different than she expected. Beneath the deluge of memories that filled her with embarrassment and shame, she was briefly blind to the exterior world, but she became aware that she was in the embrace of a stranger, armor pressing against her in unexpected places.

_Loki, _she realized as she stilled the struggle of her body. "Oh no," she said as the memories settled themselves in among the others, a sick feeling settling in her stomach. Then she became aware of the Heart, which was still insistent in its intentions. Harry had-Harry had stood up against her when she'd been doing something incredibly _stupid _and the Heart urged her to punish him for that. "No, no, no," she chanted, squeezing her eyes shut, but now the Heart had sunk its fangs into her properly. She needn't act on it immediately, but the feeling she was experiencing toward Harry distressed her immensely. Harry was her best friend in two worlds. Never should she feel this way toward him. 

But Loki stood before her, alive and well, and the Heart didn't seem to impel her to destroy him. He'd obviously understood the loophole built into the Heart's mechanism. She'd noticed it, but the magic bound her not speak of it. No artifact willingly parted out its secrets.

"Please, Harry," she gasped, "She still wants..." No, that was wrong. There was no separate identity dwelling in the Heart, not enough sentience to need give it a gendered description. It was Hermione, whose feelings of betrayal had simply been stoked by the gem. It hadn't invented that, simply intensified it. All the ugliness of the feeling was her own.

She hardly noticed as Loki's attention seemed briefly to shift, then Harry was there, his blood hot against the back of her skull as it seeped into her hair. His brief embrace reassured her that he didn't hold her actions against her, but she was quite capable of holding her own actions against herself. She wouldn't forget, wouldn't retreat.

Still, a part of her was also ashamed at the sheer ineffectiveness of the fragment that had remained outside her Occlumetic barrier. If this was how Voldemort's skill had been parted out in the Horcruxes, she couldn't imagine facing him while he was still Tom Riddle at the peak of his powers. Perhaps, rather than resentful, they should be grateful that he'd begun parting himself out while he was still young and relatively un-established.

Her eyes opened. "Malekith," she said, opening the topic, even as her memory recalled a surprising civil conversation with the Svartalfr after she'd blocked Harry's strike. Brief, but enlightening in respect to the character of their enemy. Malekith wasn't evil in the sense of a deranged lunatic. She'd gotten the impression that he thought his actions fully justified, but his perspective was strictly limited by caring only for the welfare of his own race and also by being a being out of time. For him, he'd closed his eyes and awoke to fight a war only briefly halted, but for the rest of the Nine Realms, time had continued onward without him, shifting alliances and allowing his people to become little more than memory.

"Yes," Harry said and she saw that familiar look of expectation as he waited on her input.

"The Dragon?" Hermione asked, carefully tucking away that conversation to mull over when the continued existence of the Nine Realms was no longer in jeopardy.

"Not a good idea," Harry said, grimacing. She could see threads of orange-gold threading themselves through his irises, giving her a good idea why it wasn't a good idea.

She nodded, quickly considering whether his magic would also be influenced by an unusual dominance of The Dragon. "Cripple the ship with Caladbolg?" she suggested. This planet was ideal for combat, given that with the exception of Jane, there were no bystanders that could be killed or used against them. And though she was aware that Jane was important to Thor, she was in the habit of weighing options where there were no good ones to be had. She would rather Jane die than untold hundreds or potentially thousands if Malekith took this battle elsewhere.

He could, of course, leave, for he wasn't tethered to the ship, but anything they could do to minimize casualties and damages was important.

If Loki was startled by the materialization of Caladbolg, it was quickly hidden. Even Harry's demand that they find a way to combat an omnipotent enemy didn't seem to faze him unduly. He turned to her, a hint of humor tilting his lips faintly upward. "How are you at thinking on your feet?"

"I prefer a separate planning phase with several weeks of intensive research," Hermione said tightly in response to Loki's question about her ability to think on her feet.

"That's a pity," Loki said lightly. "Are we going to need a dialogue about my motives and the possibility of further sabotage before we can cooperate?"

Hermione shook her head, a single violent movement of negation. "No. I'm capable of prioritizing. She-Morgan's Heart-blinds one to everything except vengeance, which makes one singularly linear in their thinking and extremely predictable. She also, apparently, makes one spout ridiculous drivel," Hermione said with a wince, cheeks and tips of her ears flushing at the reminder. The lie came naturally and easily, and she didn't regret misleading Loki. Let him believe that what he had experienced today was the sum total of what the Heart could accomplish. No need to build suspicion of herself by implying what the Heart would be capable of with her full consciousness and power in agreement with the intent it supplied, ever less able to escape it as she pulled power from the gem, exchanging freedom of choice for ability. "I can't believe I said that."

Loki chuckled. "It was quite breathtaking. Brief, but very dramatic."

"We will not discuss this until we can do it over Malekith's body," Hermione said.

"Changed your mind about the extinction of the Svartalfar?"

"My options are limited by circumstances. When my choice is the Dark Elves or innumerable lives in the Realms at large, I have to attribute to them a lesser value."

"You mind must function solely on numbers and statistics," Loki teased, but Hermione only frowned. "Very well, shall we win this battle for our companions?"

"I don't suppose that you have any stratagems that would be effective against the Aether?"

"My dear witch, the Aether has been contained since before I was born. Of course I have some thoughts on it, but whether or not they will be effective is a different question."

A/N: I am aware, in the books, Hermione's time with Bellatrix is very brief and she only uses the silver knife to menace her, rather than carve Mudblood on her arm. I imagine Rowling was writing with her intended audience in mind-one does not linger on torture scenes in children's stories unless one happens to be the Brothers Grimm. So, as clarification, in the version of Potterverse, Hermione was seriously tortured with lasting effects. There was none of this showing up in a borrowed gown at Shell cottage to have a sentimental moment at Dobby's graveside. I really adore the Harry Potter books, but I'm afraid I still like to pretend that everything that happened after Ron returned never happened.

I kept the Mudblood thing because it's both a tangible reminder to Hermione of the fact that her own society once turned against her very violently and because as an act perpetuated by Bellatrix, it's very interesting. Wizards don't make use of physical combat to the point where I actively discounted it in Hit Wizard training beyond what would be very, very basic defensive skills. We have violence in every single Harry Potter book, but the very vast majority of it is perpetuated using magic. So for Bellatrix to use a knife, an essentially Muggle tool, imbues the act with meaning beyond simply that of cruelty. By using a Muggle weapon, she might be implying that Hermione's blood is so dirty that it doesn't even deserve to be shed by magic.


	21. Bolide

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Twenty-

Bolide

It seemed that Malekith had finished gloating, for the red-tinted force of the Aether repelled Thor, leaving him sprawling in the sand thirty feet back from his original position.

With a cry that rent the air, more dragon-shriek than any noise capable of being produced by the human throat, Harry shifted his grip on Caladbolg and brought it in a glittering arc, rainbows of light trailing in the wake of the blade. Though he stood well back, only having advanced a few steps forward from where Loki and Hermione still stood, Caladbolg was not limited by the reach of its blade. There was the sound of sheering metal as the stroke impacted the ship, but before it could trace more than a faint scar on the black surface, shields engaged and most of the remaining force of the blow was dispersed violently, an accompanying sonic boom testifying to the energy.

Setting his feet more firmly in the sand, which offered little in the way of traction or footing, Harry tried again, this time the rainbow arc of the swing colored more intensely. But even before the impact hit, the ship's shields engaged visibly, so that when the strike hit, she could briefly glimpse the energy that made Caladolg's incredible abilities possible. But though the shields repelled the strike, the ship itself shuddered, tilting slightly.

Foot soldiers in their white masks began to swarm from the ship on some unheard command. "Concentrate on the ship!" Hermione barked at Harry, who didn't turn to look at her, but his horns dipped as he nodded.

Her wand sketching an angry pattern in the air, Hermione hissed a spell, a huge explosion tufting sand high into the air and obscuring whatever she managed to achieve with it. As the soldiers marched onward undaunted, simply skirting their dead, and she caught sight of Malakith expression, her grip on her wand tightened.

She could feel the Aether's power build with Malekith in its epicenter, then in a crushing wave expanded outward. Hermione braced herself, casting her shielding spell with little hope that it would be effective. Standing so close to Loki, she noted when he did something similar, being enveloped by an almost perfect orb of green-tinted energy that displaced the sand at his feet.

But the Aether washed around her, seeping into the sand. Beneath her feet, the planet seemed to shudder. "What's he doing?" she asked Loki sharply.

"While it's flattering that you seem to assume I know any better than you," Loki said tightly, "I am afraid I am as blind to the Aether's capabilities as you are."

The shuddering increased and Hermione nearly lost her footing, so she widened her stance and dug her heels into the sand. Dark shapes began to rise from the sand, making roaring waterfalls as they emerged. The shapes became more distinct as the shed their cloak of long obscurity. Ships, perhaps a full dozen of them, and smaller shapes as well. One emerged not two feet to her right. Standing chest-high, it was, in plain terms, a robotic dog. That did it a disservice, however, and didn't fully describe the sleek, powerful lines and elegant design of what seemed almost to be a living beast, except that she could clearly see the overlapping black plates that it was constructed of.

Shaking of its last coat of sand, its red-lit eyes turned toward her and it opened its mouth in a feral growl, revealing teeth that were constructed of the Aether-energy.

"Oh, I know what that one is," Loki said most unhelpfully. "Svartalfaheim's Surtrhundr were the envy of any among the æsir who ever hunted. Tireless, dauntless, and possessed of senses far beyond any normal beast, they also had teeth capable of piercing even the strongest armor. Once, they were used for sport, to hunt condemned prisoners across the surface of the planet."

"Really?" Hermione asked with interest. intrigued despite herself. "Did they-"

"Don't you dare hold a discussion about this!" Harry shouted, they being not quite out of earshot.

Loki sighed in a put-upon way. Then, before her eyes could track the movement, Loki was in motion, sweeping in front of her to drive one of his daggers deep in the neck of the beast, but it seemed not even to feel the blow as it turned its eerie eyes on him. It did not growl at him, its silence more unnerving than any sound it might have made.

"Well," Loki said as he was forced to spin to the side to avoid the teeth he'd mentioned. His expression was remarkably composed, even as the hund was flung to the side by the same force that had protected him from the Aether. "Do you think my father might get me one?" he asked her with a grin that he hadn't worn before in her presence, one that had neither a cruel edge nor someone's pain behind its amusement. It made him look remarkably handsome.

"Doubtful," Hermione answered. "Can you...your shielding, can you extend it to me as well?" she asked, eyes on the approaching hoard. Harry's first swing of Caladbolg had severed upper from lower, spilling entrails into the sand and blood arching into the air, but his second blow was combated by Aether-shields.

Hermione glanced upward to find Malakith standing in midair, surveying the battle like a conductor might his orchestra. The great teethlike ships were drawing closer, creating a vast ring around the four of them.

"I can keep them from you," Loki said. "Another spell?"

"Yes," Hermione answered. "_Will _you keep them from me?" she demanded.

Loki glanced over at her. "You are now going to clarify your every question?" he asked with good humor.

"I've dealt with many beings who would sooner adhere to the letter of a contract rather than the spirit of it. I am not Thor."

"If you make it a challenge, I will feel compelled to seek out loopholes," Loki pointed out.

"See it as a gesture of respect rather than a challenge," Hermione countered. "Will you shield me?"

"Go on," Harry growled, suddenly at Hermione's side. "If he doesn't shield you, I'll make sure that he regrets it." His eyes were trained on the other forming group, Thor and Jane. Hermione had almost forgotten the astrophysicist's presence, but Thor was building his battle-strategy around her protection. The flat, featureless landscape was incredibly poor for defense and he was soon going to have to be aware of potential threat from every direction as the hunds and foot-soldiers were determinedly flanking him despite mounting losses.

Hermione nodded to Harry even as Loki sulked, closing her eyes to increase her focus. Conjuration was a discipline linked strongly to transfiguration, which was why it wasn't taught as a separate subject. Hermione had been talented at both. Transfiguration in some ways was easier, in some ways more difficult. Transfiguring one substance to another, especially when doing so from animate to inanimate, required such an in-depth understanding of both substances that they were given seven years of lessons that wouldn't have looked too terribly strange in Muggle medical schools.

There was no real need to create the transfigured mice and other small creatures as complete beings, as magic would keep them alive without any real internal organs. But these 'hollow creatures' required a constant feed of magic to maintain, while completed creatures formed a closed system that could sustain itself when left to its own devices. Most of them would eventually, after days, months, or years, depending upon the wizard who'd cast the spell, return to their original state. The same held true for conjured creatures. But while they had worked with 'real' creatures common to the world, there was only the limit of imagination as to what they could actually create. Though while she might be able to conjure a dragon, creating a magical creature complete with magical abilities was something beyond the reach of all but the most specialized and powerful of wizards.

But she didn't intend to conjure a dragon. Instead, she focused on the sand beneath their feet, constructing the image she needed for transfiguration. When she'd fixed the image in her mind, complete from internal mechanisms outward, she pulled on the power of the Elder Wand and snapped the word of the invocation.

Eyes opening with satisfaction as she felt the world warp to suit her will, she watched as the sand sunk in places into pits.

"Sandtraps? Quicksand?" Harry asked doubtfully.

Hermione watched as a soldier half-slid into one of the pits and long mandibles burst through the sand to capture his leg and pull him down. "Antlions," she said smugly.

"Control?" Harry asked.

"Of course. You think that I'd just let loose monsters and hope they don't turn on us?"

"It's been done," he said, smile quirking upward as he recalled a few incidences where her temper had raced ahead of her good sense.

"What _can't _you do with your magic?" Loki asked, lips turning downward as he surveyed the chaos she'd turned the battlefield into. A hund lunged for his throat and he kicked it away without ever shifting expression, shifting to the side as a second followed. Catching it about the throat, he switched his hold on his dagger and traced an icy path like to a collar, flipping the dagger and using the hilt to tap the metal. The hund's head separated from its body and dropped to the sand. It didn't rise again.

Harry plunged Caladbolg deep into a soldier who'd drawn too close, leaving the massive sword sheathed in the Dark Elf as he pulled his wand out and muttered an incantation that

"No doppelgangers?" Hermione asked Loki.

"I have full control of the tangibility of my doppelgangers, but giving them substance enough to fight battles is very like to fighting several battles simultaneously. Even I am not able to sustain that pace of battle for long."

The first panic caused by her antlions was fading and the buzzing hisses and clicks of the insects were being silenced by the hunds, who were diving fearlessly into the sand, their metal pelts denting beneath the powerful mandibles but not being unduly harmed by them. Their Aether-fangs found no resistance in the insect's carapaces as they tore them apart.

The great fang-shaped ships seemed to have also settled into new positions, some partially destroyed, but with the way they seethed with red-tinted Aether energy told her that the damage that battle and time had done to them was irrelevant with the benefit of their energy source.

"What are the chances that those ships are charging some sort of immensely powerful attack?" Harry asked dryly.

"Oh, very probably. Although he just used them as hammers to crush the opposing army in Asgard's last battle on Svartalfahiem, so perhaps he will simply try to crush us."

"Comforting," Harry said, pulling Caladbolg free from the Dark Elf corpse with one hand. But rather than using it, he let its presence fade. Hermione, who'd been busily wrecking carnage by virtue of spells infused with the power of the Elder Wand-twisters of fire curling from the sky, kicking up sand to driven by a spell that conjured a driving wind and transfiguring them to needles as they flew, transfiguring several hunds quite poorly into rabbits and managing only give them pelts of white fur as either her lack of knowledge of their inner workings threw of her magic or she discovered they were resistant to it-glanced at him.

They'd remained in their tight triad, giving them numbers enough that they could defend no matter the approach of their enemy. Harry had assumed the role of shield, as Hermione's shields had again failed beneath the onslaught of dark-energy and he didn't trust Loki to do so. His powerful magic throbbed around them, near-visible in its intensity, keeping them safe, but Hermione's arm pulsed more unpleasantly as her earlier wound was strained by both use of the arm and magic.

None of their members had yet sustained serious injury, but that could all change in an instant, for Malakith's warrior, while not quite an army, were quite enough to have them seriously outnumbered, and his resurrected Surtrhundr were even more difficult to kill than his footsoldiers.

Loki ventured in and out of their protective shield, risking his real body in combat, but also materializing doppelgangers behind his enemies, giving them just enough tangibility to slit their throats. But the practice was apparently taxing to his energy. He was breathing heavily and sweat was beading at his temples.

"Alright?" she asked. Magic wasn't physically taxing to wizards in the same way that his magic seemed to be, but she could already feel the strain on her body in different ways. The feasts of Hogwarts were very practical things, for working magic could waste a wizard away to bones, flesh, and magic. Magic was an inexhaustible resource, but what they referred to as the natural magic of a wizard, intimately connected to their power, was a measure of how much magic a wizard was capable of bending to their will at a single point in time. When that limit was reached, the symptom was something like being burned from the inside out. Wizards were the only beings actually capable of spontaneous combustion due to magic overuse, though it wasn't always fire that consumed them. And it took a madman to press past the point of pain to where they would actually die from the force they wielded.

She wasn't yet in danger of that, but eventually she would collapse.

"I will manage," Loki told her tightly.

"Hermione," Harry said, voice low and feral.

She looked to him and he regarded her very seriously. When a nonverbal privacy charm enveloped them, he spoke. "Caladbolg isn't enough to get past the shields on the ships."

She immediately divined the direction this conversation would take. "The Dragon?"

The muscles in Harry's jaw tightened. "Dragonfire might work. I'm going to give it a try. But the Aether is something awful. If...something goes wrong, if I lose control, please don't let Loki or Thor interfere if I try to give you the Aether. I think once you host it, we'll have enough time to figure out how to extract and seal it again, but..."

Hermione worried her lip. "Harry, dragons never surrender treasure willingly," she said in a small voice.

He frowned more deeply. "I know. But we're outnumbered and outmatched. This time, I'm not willing to wait until the last moment to act. That's what brought us to this world."

Hermione hesitated, then nodded. "Then if you're willing to risk that, then I'll raise Fiendfyre."

Harry's brows rose, then he smiled crookedly. "Morals giving way in the face of need," he teased, but Hermione didn't smile.

"Get off the ground," he told her. "See if Loki has a form strong enough to bear you up, then tell Thor to get Jane clear. You'll never forgive yourself if you lose control." His hand reached out and squeezed hers in a gesture of reassurance. "Not that Hermione Granger would ever lose control," he said dryly.

She summoned up a shaky smile with which to answer him and had to force her hand to release him as he allowed the privacy spell to fail.

"Is there a plan?" Loki asked irritably, obviously somewhat angry at his exclusion. Harry didn't answer, instead sheathing his wand and launching himself upward, shifting to his dragon-self. For a moment, her heart soared as she looked on the majestic spread of his wings and his powerful, armored body.

But then she discovered what the ships had been waiting for.

Harry's shriek of pain left her deaf for several moments, but she could feel herself shouting Harry's name. Dragon blood hissed upon the battlefield, like an acid rain, but as his body impacted the sand, kicking up a great cloud of it, Harry rolled and pushed off again, using the speed that had once matched that of a Firebolt to avoid the worst of the fire.

As he belched fire upon the ships that were trying to destroy him, Hermione grasped Loki's hand. The movement and perhaps the contact startled Loki, so it was wide eyes that met her own as she pulled him to face her.

"Do you have a form capable of flight that can bear a human?" she snapped.

Loki's brows rose. "To what purpose-?"

She restrained herself from shaking him. "Do you?" she demanded more forcefully.

"Yes," he said, obviously still a bit bemused.

"Then, please," Hermione said, gesturing harshly for him to assume the form.

"I'll have you know that women who desire to ride me usually request to do so a great deal less brusquely," Loki quipped, but in moments an immense eagle was on the sand before her, dark-feathered with his pinions edged in gold.

Thanking Ron silently for the gift of her hippogriff all those years ago, Hermione mounted in such a way that his wings were unhindered, though his body was broader and less comfortable for riding than any hippogriff or winged horse she had ever ridden.

"I'm going to call up a very different kind of fire," she told him, "and there's a possibility that I'll lose control of it. We need to get to Thor. He needs to get off the ground."

Loki shuffled his wings in what she supposed was agreement. Arching his neck beneath her, Hermione realized it was a silent admonition for her to hold tight and she did so, clutching tightly at as many feathers as she could gather into her hands so she didn't run the risk of plucking one and causing him pain.

His powerful legs launched them into the air. Rather than flying the short distance between their position and Thor's directly, his powerful wingbeats took them soaring into the sky, his smaller, more agile body avoiding what Harry's mass could not, though Hermione had to grit her teeth against the scream that built in her throat at his maneuvers. There was none of the sense of power and control that was imparted by riding winged horses or hippogriffs. It was very clear to her that she was trusting herself to Loki, who had proven less than an hour ago that he couldn't be trusted.

They reached the peak of their arc and then, with a shrieking cry, he folded his wings and sent them swooping downward. Hermione leaned close to his neck, minimizing her profile so that she wouldn't be pulled off by the force of the wind, which was still filled with grains of sand that stung her eyes. Eyes watering, she blinked them clear as Loki, rather than landing, simply snatched Jane up in his talons and began to climb again.

Thor shouted something unintelligible, but he took to the air.

Glancing once more at Harry, Hermione spoke the incantation for Fiendfyre, feeling the spell work itself through her body, warming her with a warmth almost sexual as it in turn fed from her intent to destroy her enemy. Fiendfyre was Dark. There was no argument that could be made to counter that. Holding her wand aloft, Hermione gritted her teeth as fire arched from it. Loki's flight, made erratic by the need to keep avoiding the fire of the ships, which had turned some measure of their attention to them, meant that she couldn't concentrate the flame into a single beast, but that which rose from the unformed fire was sufficient for her cause.

Great nundu-like cats rose first, taking the Sutrhundr in strong jaws that crushed the metal of their bodies even as it began to melt. Dragon, serpents, chimaeras also rose from the flames, their attacks broader as they spread, rendering them into little more than ash. The battlefield below quickly became a sea of fire populated by monsters and it was with a great roar that that sea crashed into the great ships of the Dark Elves, breaking upon them like waves, fire rushing upward so close to them that Loki's flight was swept upward on an updraft of heat.

Harry's fire, distinguishable as it blazed blue, joined the Fiendfyre, but even he kept well clear of the fangs and talons of the flaming beasts. One by one, the ships toppled and crashed into the sand below, where they were overrun. When the last ship had fallen, Hermione bit the inside of her mouth so hard that it bled, drawing together her will so that she could cast the counter-incantation.

The fire retreated only reluctantly, but when it had at last been silenced, the sand beneath had been melted, slag glass and obsidian revealing the components of the sand. But standing there, untouched by a fire that had the power to consume souls, was Malekith.


	22. Absolution at Absolute Zero

A/N: Just so you know, this second chapter today means that there won't be another one tomorrow. That said, happy reading and I hope not to disappoint.

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Twenty-One-

Absolution at Absolute Zero

He flew, buffeted on the harsh updrafts generated by a roiling sea of flame-beasts, and Loki felt that emotion which he most detested: smallness. With eagle-keen eyes, he looked down on an expression of power as great as Odin's own and was made to feel the comparative weakness of his own power. And in that moment, hatred and envy threatened to overwhelm him, so much so that he contemplated how Hermione Granger might slip by accident from his back. Mortal hands were so weak, after all, and the winds so strong.

Let her tumble into the fire of her own making and perhaps that might extinguish the fire of jealousy that had been born in his breast as she'd asked, cool and composed after casting magics that would have left him spent and exhausted if he'd been capable of them, if he would be well. It had only grown worse when she had climbed atop him and then proceeded to create the hungriest fire he had ever seen, one which might have devoured an army and still found itself wanting.

He wondered what Thor would do, should his talons slip, dropping his still squirming lover into the fire. Or perhaps it was that his talons would clench and crush her lungs. He was powerful enough in this form for that; but, no, he would not do so. Thor would see her blood and strike him out of the sky with his lightning and there was nowhere to fall but into the gaping maws of fire below.

Loki would have to make himself content with his dissatisfied heart.

He could nearly feel the vacuum pull them down as Hermione extinguished the flames, they having greedily taken what they could with them, leaving other air to rush in to fill the dearth. Below him was an alien landscape, the shifting sands having disappeared beneath heat so enormous as to transform the sands in petrified lightning and dark obsidian.

Perhaps it would be wiser still to cultivate someone capable of so much power as an ally. They were faintly alike in their thoughts and he could offer to her the knowledge she so obviously craved in return for friendship. He had no interest in reciprocating the affection, but there had been so much blind loyalty in her eyes when she looked to Harry that he might have been mock-ill in a less serious situation. Hermione Granger, while unreadable in many ways, was very obviously to lay down life, limb, and perhaps even soul in defense of one she called friend. Foolish, but a useful thing if one could manage to become that friend.

But as he had the thought, he felt the tight grip of the hand that had been buried in his feathers slacken. Did Hermione require two free hands for a new casting? Was there nothing that would exhaust her? But then he felt her weight shift dangerously and she did nothing to catch herself.

Loki had no hands with which to steady her, could only let her tumble from his back and bank sharply as she plummeted downward. She didn't flail or make any sign of distress, which he would almost believe meant that she'd done it intentionally, but she tumbled so that her back was to the approaching ground.

Her eyes were not completely closed, but they had rolled up into her head so that he could see only the whites. But though her mouth had gone slack, her grip on that bit of wood never went slack.

He had transferred Thor's lover to the grip of one talon and had opened his wings to halt his momentum somewhat so he could extend his other leg and pluck Hermione from the air when he noticed the oncoming bulk of Harry's dragon-self.

Loki had only a moment to take in eyes more golden than green when he also noticed that Harry's jaws were opened wide with the intention of devouring _him. _Pulling his wings in tight, he still was brushed by Harry's armored underbelly, nearly knocking his eagle-self out of the sky.

Jane screamed and he did the same, but his was a harsh cry of reproach at the dragon. Who had, he noticed, retrieved Hermione. Did Harry not trust him to catch his falling friend? Had he thought his rescue a feint, that he would have let her tumble to her death?

Well, to give him due credit, that _had _been very much what he'd been considering doing, but it was still insulting to by stymied in the act of actually rescuing her.

The cry attracted the dragon's attention, but rather than any human gesture of either apology or reproach, there was only feral awareness of a threat in the eyes set in the horned head. He'd been rather busy during the New York incident and sun-blinded as he'd tried to glimpse the form that the secretary had taken and he'd been deep underground when Harry had apparently come to the defense of Asgard.

He was-imposing. It was a very good word to describe a beast unlike the smaller wyverns that the reckless of Asgard sometimes hunted. Horns crowned his head, ranged along his spine, tipped that long, prehensile tail. He was unlike to any dragon Loki had ever seen and quicker than any he'd imagined. No bumbling sheep-stealer was this.

Loki memorized the form hungrily, letting every scale, every shadowed angle, seep into his mind.

And then the dragon blasted fire at him and he was forced to shelter behind the shield of Thor's spinning hammer, which he used to deflect the worst of it, though even Thor flinched at the heat. "Harry!" Thor called to the dragon, which only shrieked fury in return, mindless as a true beast.

Loki felt something in him falter at the thought. Was that what the two had been so seriously discussing? Did Harry lose his veneer of humanity when he became this? No, when he returned to this? His between-form indicated it likelier that the dragon was the truth and Harry Potter the lie, unless that between-form was his truest state. Whatever the reality of the matter, things might become quite difficult if such a powerful beast turned against them. Especially as Malekith yet lived and Loki's keen eyes could now pick out the outlines of the other eight Realms, aligning themselves for the Convergence.

Midgard, being the middle Realm, might have been the most advantageous Realm from which to unleash his campaign of destruction, but with all the Realms pressed so tightly together, Loki did not doubt he might still accomplish it.

"Brother!" Thor said, catching his attention. "Do you know what ails Harry?"

Making a sound of disdain with the throat of an eagle was a difficult task, but he managed. Tossing Jane toward his brother, Loki plunged toward the ground, barely avoiding a scorching from the dragon that was soaring restlessly above them.

Regaining human form so smoothly he was able to transition from skimming just above the sand to walking briskly toward their adversary, Loki grimaced. Hindsight was a terrible thing. Before Hermione had scorched the earth, they ought to have liberated at least one of the grenades that they had used to destroy Malekith's Kursed warrior. The solution seemed too easy, but sometimes the easiest path was also the correct one. Now they were left with no army on Malekith's side, but no clear weapon that would have any effect on theirs.

For all his cleverness, he couldn't imagine what they would have to do to kill Malekith if that ugly fire had not even managed to burn him.

"Lose control of your dragon?" Malekith mocked. "You ought to have known better than to let such a beast near the Aether. It drives them mad." There was anger in the tightly controlled expression of his face, but he didn't seem unduly worried. "And your sorceress gone as well. A shame, that. Though if she hadn't extinguished that fire before she fell, she might well have done my work for me when the Convergence came."

Loki clenched his fist subtly as Thor landed dramatically at his side, boots scraping across what was now a rocky surface rather than shifting sand.

The dragon chose that moment to come shrieking past, blazing a line of fire upon Malekith, who shielded himself from it with a faint expression of irritation, which only increased when the dragon doubled back and tried to rend him to pieces in a manner more in accord with mundane beasts, putting tooth and claw and tail to work. It was a brief, intense struggle, one which Thor and he rushed forward to exploit. Everything was movement, mace and hammer, dagger and claw, all competing with each other as steel rang and the brothers once again found themselves in accord, each anticipating the other so that an ally's weapon didn't accidentally find itself in allied flesh.

But even Thor's strength wasn't currently a match for the Aether and Loki cursed again the fact that the technology of the Dark Elves had been so thoroughly destroyed. Malekith had disdained one of the dark-matter rifles that his footsoldiers had carried, instead proving that he well knew how to make use of a mace. In a flurry of wings, the dragon retreated to give himself space enough to breathe fire without crisping the burden he clutched to his chest in one clawed hand.

The distraction gave Thor time enough to rush in, pitting Mjolnir's might against the mace and just this once, fortune smiled on them, for it was knocked from Malekith's hand, though Thor was blasted backward by a wave of the Aether for his trouble.

That left only Loki at the fore of the battle, facing off against Malekith. Was not this the opportunity he'd long envisioned for himself, that one chance to reveal his own prowess and heroism? And this was not a single world at stake, but all worlds. If he won here, his glory would continue unabated long after even he had perished, which would be some time so distant in the future he didn't doubt that by that point the mortals would have bred themselves into starvation if they weren't first crushed by another Realm who took their developing weapons as a sign they were ready to participate in the wars that defined relations between all the other Realms.

And yet, though his opponent was only a single man and his mind was full of tricks, he couldn't think of a single one that would be effective against the Aether. And it was not in his nature to fight battles that could not be won. But here, there was not time to retreat, regroup, rethink. He could only push forward with the weapons he had.

Malekith had made himself all but untouchable-even dragon's fire could no longer reach his flesh. But, as he glanced upward, a thought stole into his mind, one he couldn't shake.

Loki raised his hand in a gesture of surrender, stepping away from Malekith.

Who only laughed. "I no longer trust your surrenders, Liesmith. They are only another weapon."

"Weapon or not," Loki said self-depreciatingly, "we're almost out of time."

"Loki, what are you doing?" Thor said in a pained whisper, but Loki didn't look toward him as he heard the rustle of leather that meant Thor had shoved himself to his feet.

_Waiting, _Loki thought composedly, _for the perfect moment. _

He almost started as the air in front of him was displaced with a faint _pop_ and Hermione there, swaying. Above them, the dragon roared in what was likely fury. She still seemed as composed, but now the effort it was taking to not collapse was visible in the hard lines of her jaw. Her eyes met his and searched them for he knew not what. He noted the way Malekith seemed to see through her, though he was doubtless distracted by his preparations for bringing the universe back to primordial darkness.

"Can I...help?" she asked.

"Can you avoid falling over in the next two minutes?" he murmured. "Unless you have in your possession an artifact that freely amplifies magic, I need no aid, except that Thor not interfere."

It was somewhat unsettling, the way she considered whether or not she possessed such a thing, which would have been another of the treasures kept safe in a vault if it were on Asgard. But at last she shook her head, a movement which seemed to disturb her balance, for she lurched to the side. "I should have known better than to use dark magic and _that _at the same time," she muttered. Then she treated him to a surprising, slightly mischievous grin. "Although all for the better in being a damsel in distress."

Then, with another faint noise, she was away, then she was tumbling into Thor's arms from a distance of about fifteen feet up in the air. Hearing another shriek from the dragon, Loki ignored them all. Because Malekith was already levitating in the air through the sheer power the Aether was generating and the blood-red light was building.

In order to be certain his conquest was complete, his full attention was devoted to channeling the Aether, building it for a final strike. It was Loki's hope that the rudimentary sentience of the Aether was similarly occupied, for this, which should be their moment of victory, would also be their moment of greatest vulnerability, right at the moment before the attack was released, when the force of the Aether would be concentrated outside the host body.

Loki waited patiently, judging his moment, and then he strode forward, shuddering beneath the burden of the red-tinted light, but as he kept his heart calm and free of intent of what he was about to do and bore no weapons, he came within reach of Malekith. Loki reached up to grab Malekith's ankle, shedding his Asgardian guise, for it was not Asgardian trickery that would win this battle, but the nature of the Jotunn that was his truth _. _Without the Casket of Ancient Winters to amplify his magic, the winter that dwelled in his body couldn't be used to harm from a distance, but with touch, the depths of cold, where all atomic movement stopped and time itself stilled, could be forced upon another. It was why they had feared the touch of the Jotunn when Thor had recklessly led them to Jotunheim, why he had expected in that fearful moment to lose his arm at the least.

And he took more than an arm from Malekith, pouring all his remaining energy into the attack, transforming their foe into an elaborate sculpture of ice, face contorted with rage.

Panting with the effort, too weary to return to his Asgardian form but uncomfortable being seen in his Jotunn form, he could only watch with bleary eyes as the dragon shrieked in triumph, swooping downward and making as if to gather the trembling, barely contained Aether in his claws.

A powerful blow from Mjolnir sent it careening toward the hardened crust of the sand, which its weight shattered. Keening in mingled pain and rage, he shook his head, then Loki could only watch with dismay as he reared his head, blue flames flickering as it prepared to incinerate them all.

But then Hermione was there, placing a careful hand on a scaled chest, even as she supported most of her weight on it. The dragon, distracted, looked down at her and met her eyes. And then, in a strange, prolonged moment, they just stared at each other.

Thor, hand grasping his hammer, was frozen in a pose of indecision, whether to rush in and save Hermione from the dragon that had only moments ago been attempting to take the Aether for itself, or allow Hermione to continue whatever it was she was doing.

Loki didn't know whether to advice action or patience, until he noted that the golden hue was slowly fading from the dragon's eyes, leaving only the more mundane green that he'd associated with the former S.H.I.E.L.D. secretary. The dragon seemed to collapse into itself as he watched, until it was the between-state Harry who wrapped his arms around Hermione as if she were a lifeline, shifting her so that she was more firmly between himself and the Aether.

"Unless you want to become dragonslayers," he rasped, "do something about that damned stuff."

A/N: I always thought that for a magic like Fiendfyre, stopping it would be a task infinitely more difficult than casting it in the first place.

For the record, I don't consider Loki weaker than Hermione or Harry. His strength is simply different, just as Thor's is different again. Each has different situations for which their power is better suited. It's like trying to compare Black Widow with Iron Man-pointless, but neither of them is the lesser for not being capable of the things the other is. But Loki's jealousy started this whole mess to begin with-I think it would be highly out of character for him to simply accept their strengths and his own as they are. He's a child like that in many ways, or at least it seems so to me. If he cannot be best in _all _aspects, he seems perpetually dissatisfied.

Also, now that we're past the big reveal, I suppose it's only fair to lay before you the list of Hermione's artifacts and their abilities. Which is as good a method as any for ensuring that I don't cheat the rules of my own universe. Also providing background for some of these so you needn't trek over to Wikipedia yourself.

The Elder Wand and Cloak. These function exactly as they do in canon, complete with the Cloak's weaknesses.

Fragarach. A sword which imparts limited control over the wind and, when at someone's throat, forces them to speak only the truth. Actual mythological weapon from Irish mythology, in which it is known at 'The Answerer.' It imparted control over the wind, could cut through any shield, and could give a mortal piercing wound.

Dyrnwyn. A white-hilted sword which, when drawn by a worthy wielder, will burst into flame from hilt to tip. Actual mythological weapon from the Welsh tradition wielded by Rhydderch Hael.

Luin of Celtchar. A spear whose flame is so intense that most users keep it quenched in a cauldron. Has killed former wielders. Actual mythological weapon from the Irish Ulster cycle of myths.

The Red Hands of the Morrigan. Just as the _Felix Felicis _has the power to impart luck, the Red Hands can snatch defeat from the jaws of victory by reversing men's fortunes. Generally used on the field of battle. However, the ghosts of the fallen touched by the Hands are then bound to follow the wearer, for good or ill. Based on the attributes of the Irish concept of The Morrigan, a goddess of battle, strife, and sovereignty. Appears most often as a crow.

The Mirror of Viviane. One of the most powerful remaining scrying tools, which can be used to search the world for specific places or people. Can also be used as a tool to allow one to Apparate into places one has never physically been before. Because of the way in which it was shattered and embedded in her skin, use of the artifact makes Hermione temporarily blind to the physical world while it's in use. The name comes from one of the Ladies of the Lake in the Arthurian cycle, while the artifact itself is based on a standard fixture in fantasy tales.

Morgan's Heart. The jewel is capable of amplifying one's natural magic, that is the amount of magic a wizard can wield at any one point, as well as the force of one's spells, but in exchange, vengeance must always be pursued for wrongs. Can be overcome by liberal application of the betrayer's blood, but when not diverted by Occlumency, its influence is very difficult to detect. Based on the attributes of Morgan le Fay in the Arthurian cycle.

Epona's Spurs. Capable of possessing a horse and imparting it with the fleetness of foot of a Granian, the grey winged horses that are the swiftest mounts to be had in the Wizarding world. If a poor horse, the ride will kill it. Because the metal is embedded in her flesh, Hermione has to remove her boots to make use of the artifact. Based only very vaguely on the attributes of the Gallo-Roman goddess.

These are the sum total of the artifacts, all of which have been introduced or mentioned prior to this chapter. I generally don't spring things on my readers without at least hinting of their existence.


	23. In Defiance of the Anthropic Principle

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Twenty-Two-

In Defiance of the Anthropic Principle

Harry and Hermione seemed to be leaning as much on each other as standing on their own. Sluggish mischief tried to imagine what would happen if either collapsed, but Hermione had tilted her head so far back it broached the limits of mortal flexibility.

"Only eight," she murmured, just loud enough to hear.

Glancing downward at the girl clutched to his chest, Harry followed her example, his eyes seeking something in the convergence that he failed to find. His grip on Hermione tightened. "Only eight," he repeated, his voice deep and rasping.

"You were expecting other Realms?" Loki interjected, shambling toward them. Pointless to hide his appearance, not when he'd revealed it so openly. That was what he told himself, forcing his shoulders back when they would have crept forward, careful to display only his habitual faint mockery on his face, even when anxiety skittered about the edges of his brain, whispering unkind pejoratives.

And perhaps, being from elsewhere, they wouldn't look on him as such a monstrosity. Given Harry's appearance and nature, he had a new respect for those of the æsir who surely would have despised him. For it was different to settle to his satisfaction whether the boy was a barely leashed monstrosity that he'd hunted before as a beast despite its capacity for speech or if he was a fuller being than that who didn't deserve to be judged by his species alone. But the fact was that he'd very nearly killed him, which made it very difficult to overlook the simple fact that he _was_ a dragon, whatever else he might pretend to be.

And where he was only evil when circumstances declared him so, dragons were born of greed and could therefore be nothing but. It was their nature, just as the bleakness of winter and its inherent destructiveness was the nature of the Jotunn.

Loki was soundly ignored by Hermione, who had transitioned to staring blankly at the hollow of Harry's throat.

But Harry answered. "You already guessed the answer to that, haven't you? We aren't from any of your Nine Realms-and this Convergence might have been our best chance at returning home. But there isn't even a shadow," he said bitterly. Lips pulled away from teeth in a feral snarl, but he seemed to bring himself back under control, tucking his head closer to Hermione's hair, pressing his cheek against it the way a cat might approach its owner.

Had he suspected such a thing? Yes, in the same way that the Chitauri had been outside the experience of Asgard, but there was something distinctly odd about the manner in which Harry had phrased his statement. But being outside the Realms would also limit the dragon's experience, so perhaps he only thought the wider Realms odd, just as Loki had once thought that anything worth knowing would originate from within the Realms. So, not so odd at all, just a harsh lesson in perspective.

Hermione didn't move nor respond for a long moment. One of Harry's hands finally released their grip on her and he brushed something away from her face. Tears were his automatic assumption, but the hand that pulled away was slick with blood on edges of his not-quite-scaled fingers. "Stop it," he said, very gently. "You're just hurting yourself now. There isn't anything to see."

Hermione choked down a half-sob. For a moment, Loki thought he would bear witness to the first real sign of uncontrolled emotion from the girl, but then her spine straightened and with visible effort, she composed herself. "You're right," she said. "You're right, Harry," she repeated, as if to convince herself. "Can I pull away?" she asked.

"I'd rather you didn't, not until someone does something about the Aether," Harry said darkly, his eyes averted from the direction of Malekith and the energy. "Unless, of course, you want to be the new host to the stuff."

"I'd really rather _not_," Hermione answered sardonically. She glanced over her shoulder at Loki and he took the opportunity to study her, since she was doing the same to him quite blatantly. Her face was streaked with blood, as if the glittering glass embedded in her face was a fresh wound.

"Curiosity satisfied?" he asked darkly after a moment.

"Of course not," she answered lightly. "I'm insatiable. Though I did think you would be taller."

"Behold the shame of Laufey," Loki said, spreading his arms slightly to showcase himself.

Hermione didn't react to the bitterness he didn't bother to keep from his voice. She studied him silently, her unremarkable brown eyes again unnerving penetrating. But then her glance transitioned to Thor, who was approaching their little gaggle with Jane by his side.

Though it was uncomfortable to do so, he dredged up the last bit of his strength to reassume his Asgardian form before his brother and his little mortal concubine could properly see his hateful blue skin with the ridges and eddies that signified he knew not what.

It was Loki of Asgard who turned to face Thor, a bit worse for wear, but with pale flesh and eyes his accustomed color. "Brother," Thor said boisterously, somehow quite a bit livelier than anyone else left on this field of battle, "we have done it, we have won!"

"Indeed," Loki said dryly.

"And to have won with so little cost!" Thor exclaimed, then glanced over at Harry and Hermione. There was nothing subtle about the way he placed his body between their group and his mortal. Evidently Thor too remembered the nature of dragons, not nearly so at ease as he had been when had thought Harry merely capable of shifting form. In response to the aggressive display, Loki thought Harry would make some move in turn, but amusement tugged the corners of his lips upward.

"I doubt that Jane's a maiden," Harry said wickedly. "I can bear the temptation to eat her, if that's what has you worried."

Thor bristled, but to everyone's surprise, it was Jane who snorted at the comment. "See? This is what Asgard is missing. Someone who gets straight to the point. Are you alright?" she directed the question to Hermione. "You just kind of...fell off, there at the end."

Hermione grimaced. "When you let some things in the world," she said, "they don't want to exit gracefully. Dark Magic is created not only with power, but intent. And it isn't easily turned aside. Not without...cost," she said carefully. "And it was never intended to be used against such a large force."

"Why not admit it outright, Hermione?" Harry said, abruptly shifting from amusement to challenge, meeting Thor's eyes challengingly. "Since we are now practicing honesty. With the intertwining of Realms caused by the Convergence, Hermione could very well have set Ragnorak in motion, scorching the Realms with _fire._"

"Harry," Hermione said scathingly, "don't be ridiculous. For one, _Fiendfyre_ would burn away more than-." She stopped abruptly, censuring herself, but her eyes snapped with a fire of their own. Loki wondered at what the word he couldn't understand represented, but then he realized that it must be the proper name of the fire. A magic so alien to his own that he couldn't even understand the words that described it? That intrigued him, but less so than what Hermione might have admitted might she have continued. She took a deep breath. "You'll have to forgive Harry," she said tightly. "Dragons aren't really constructed to deny themselves. It's left him a bit unsettled, hasn't it?" she demanded sharply of her companion.

Harry blinked down at her and Loki started to notice that a translucent lid swept over his eyes first. "I thought I was doing remarkably well," he said, mild again as quick as he'd burned hot.

And Hermione gave in easily to that mildness, the tense lines of her body relaxing into Harry's embrace. "You are," she said. "And I would recommend, in order to keep that desirable state possible, that you quickly reveal your contingency plan for controlling the Aether should it prove that it couldn't be destroyed. Then we would be delighted to answer the questions you doubtless have."

Harry scoffed. "_You _can be delighted to field an interrogation. _I _don't have to make myself sound I accepted a sudden appointment to do public relations for Tony Stark."

Hermione's composure didn't falter at his muttered protest. "You _did _develop a contingency plan?" Her tone was as pointed as a blade.

Thor shifted a bit uncomfortably at that.

Loki intervened, because it was quite obvious to anyone with eyes that Thor trusted in his strength quite beyond the point of reason. "Perhaps you should simply call out to Heimdall? I'm sure he can arrange for someone capable of sealing the Aether to make the journey here."

Thor took his suggestion with his usual genial acceptance, with hardly the grace to even realize that his plan had been foolish from the first.

While they waited on Heimdall's response, Loki turned to Thor. "So, back to my cage for me, brother?"

"That was the bargain you agreed to."

Jane glanced between them as Loki considered that. His quick mind conjured schemes and as quickly dismissed them. But, to his surprise, it was Jane who came to his defense. "Look," she said, "I'd be the first to say Loki deserves to be thrown into a pit of snakes for what he did in New Mexico and New York, but he _did _just save the world."

But Thor shook his head. "Nonetheless, my father's judgment will stand. Unless the Allfather revokes it, Loki's punishment will continue, unless you would see us all in prison. And I do not doubt that we may spend a few days there yet, until he decides what punishment befits the rest of us. Still, it was a good battle," he said. "Fought at the side of unexpected allies."

Hermione eyed Thor narrowly. "I think you mean to say that your allies had unexpected abilities, unless you are implying that after discovering Harry's true nature, as well as my own, you were surprised that we still fought at your side. Which is a slight on the promise we made to you that might be answered in blood, were we æsir."

"But you are not æsir," Thor said. "And you lied when you said that Harry was a shapeshifter."

Hermione tilted her head as she considered this. "Did I?" she asked. "I said he could shift shape and that he had only the single form, but I don't recall saying which was the true one."

Loki felt his lips tip upwards into an involuntary smile. It was a long ago conversation, so he could no longer recall her exact words, which might well have been a blatant lie, but he had to admire the way she twisted the conversation so that it was Thor's understanding that was called into question rather than her honesty.

"And I don't ever recall you asking me whether or not I was capable of magic, so mine is also a sin of omission. And you failed to point out at the time that Loki was capable of shapeshifting, so unless you wish to hold yourself to some standard of forthrightness as well, I don't believe you have grounds to hold anything against me," Hermione continued. "Or am I wrong about that?"

Jane was grinning as Thor shifted again, his bulk only unnatural in moments like this. "That may be true..." Thor said reluctantly. "I should have guessed that no child of Midgar would be able to corner Loki so easily."

Hermione's brows rose. "I see you have a very high opinion of your brother. But, no, I am not from Midgar, nor am I a child, though by comparison to an æsir's lifespan, I suppose I would be. But I am a woman in her thirties, not some naive child."

"You're in your thirties?" Jane asked, somewhat aghast at this revelation. "Is this extended lifespan common to _everyone _who doesn't live on Earth? What makes our DNA degrade so much faster than yours? Do your bodies use different proteins? Different bonds? Do you even _have _DNA, or do you have the equivalent to DNA what DNA is to RNA?"

"Don't look to me for answers to that," Hermione said archly. "I know that Asgardians regard magic and science as one and the same, but it's rather..."

"Considered the stunted, backwards cousin, where we come from," Harry supplied helpfully.

Rather than turn to Thor next, Loki was somewhat surprised when Jane turned to him. His hands remained at waist level, but he turned the palms up to indicate he had no good answer for her, the Golden Apples being a secret that was only to be dispersed at the discretion of the Allfather. Jane huffed in displeasure, settling her arms across her chest. Then she gestured abruptly toward her face with one hand, turning slightly towards Hermione. "Is that going to be all right?"

Hermione blinked, then tested the blood on her cheeks with her armored fingers. The blood was already beginning to dry for the lack of moisture in the air. "It's nothing," she said dismissively.

"Because spontaneous bleeding is quite normal?" Loki asked dryly.

"Because it's an expected side-effect," Hermione retorted tartly. "I can't think of a single instance where spontaneous bleeding would be nothing."

"And what is a side-effect from? The fire? But quite delayed, wasn't it?"

She gave him that small, unexpected smile again. "I will present you with an inventoried list of my capabilities when you're ready to return the favor."

Loki smirked. "That day might be sooner than you think, if the Allfather decides that we should all languish in prison together."

Harry snorted. "As if Hermione would allow that. Just let them _try _to accuse her of anything. They'll find themselves awarding her a medal before they realize what's happened."

"Nothing that dramatic," Hermione sniffed, "But I do have classes, you know. I can't keep missing them. My grade point average might suffer. And I have a reputation t maintain, you see."

"And priorities, which are still all askew after all these years," Harry said fondly.

Before their conversation could continue, the Bifrost began to blaze light down on the barren, dark world. "Well," Loki said philosophically, "I suppose we shall all discover our fate soon enough."

But all the while, he was turning over a new thought, one which had presented itself for inspection at Harry's words, which made him recall just how cannily Hermione had argued with him while he had been imprisoned on Midgard. He had the same easy ability with words, but what made Hermione's cut so deep was the simple fact she edged her words with honed truths, so perceptive as to be uncanny. One couldn't argue against her the way one could with him, because it would very clearly and quickly make one look like a fool. The only choice was to deflect, but that wasn't the approach most æsir took.

No, any other Asgardian would have tried to lie and soon been caught in it, but if there was one thing he had learned in a millenia of weaving together truth and artifice, it was when truth needed to be used to sustain a lie. The straightforward nature of most Asgardians would give them some measure of defense against her, but Hermione had one advantage he had long ago lost. No one expected the truth of Loki Silvertongue. But this new, untested girl? One who radiated a quiet but intense self-righteousness and didn't even bother with cosmetics?

They might be led to the path he desired by her.

Advocacy wasn't unknown, but it was generally the greater who interceded for the lesser. He would be obliged to her if she represented his case, but if she didn't know of it, was there a need for him to acknowledge that debt? Or, perhaps, he might benefit in the long-term by this owing. What if he offered to repay her in friendship?

He favored the idea, the more he thought on it. It would be the most natural way to gain a foothold on her affections. And from there, the loan of her power and Harry's by extension, for he had seen the closeness of their bond on Midgard and here again on this battlefield. Where one was led the other would follow, of that he was certain.

He needed only make certain that when Thanos came, he could make use of these two as shield and sword, for if their abilities were unknown to him, they would also be unknown to Thanos.

Now to contrive the right words to convince Hermione Granger to speak for him in front of his-in front of the Allfather.

He was jostled from his thoughts by Thor's firm grip on his shoulder. Thor's voice, for once, was low. "We will have words, brother, on your 'death'."

Loki conjured a smile, though he was internally uneasy. "I look forward to it, brother."

A/N: Now, as requested, the list of Harry's artifacts.

The Dragon: Excepting his size and the fact that I chose an non-wyvern model, meaning he has four limbs in addition to wings, this Hungarian Horntail is pulled straight from cannon. The Horntail is considered the most dangerous of dragon breeds and it can breathe flame equal to the length of its body. Their flight is spectacularly fast-if we go in accord with movie canon, it can keep pace with a Firebolt, whose advertisement says it can go from 0 to 150 mph in 10 seconds. Even aside from the species specific capabilities, dragons are immensely magical creatures. Gloves made of their hide are what are used to handle the most corrosive and unstable of potions ingredients, they are near-immune to most charms and spells, and their blood alone has twelve separate uses, ranging from an oven cleaner to promoting healing by lending a part of a dragon's immense vitality.

On the non-canon side of things, my contribution is the way in which the dragon interacts with his hoard. He hears the magic in them as song, which is the way the dragon uses and is used by magic. In part because this frees me to be more poetic, but also because it is a significantly less utilitarian way to use magic, as opposes to the Swiss Army knife approach of wizards. Harry's control over The Dragon is directly linked to Hermione's well-being, because threat to the hoard brings the dragon's instincts to the fore. And, as seen in the last chapter, dragons have only a limited recognition beyond self and hoard in such a state, making them dangerous even to those that don't mean any harm.

His between-form offers limited use of these abilities, such as flight, strength, and some part of his draconic senses, but he cannot breathe fire in the between-form and his shielding is correspondingly weaker without his scales.

The Resurrection Stone. Gives the ability to raise and speak to the ghosts of the departed. Based on evidence of Dumbledore's lurking beyond death-the fact he seemed to be slumming in a train station waiting to have a choice-affirming conversation with Harry-wearing it might grant a kind of shadowy half-life to its wearer after death.

Caladbolg. A two-handed greatsword plucked from Irish mythology, it really does make rainbows in the arc of its swing and it capable of cutting off the tops of three hills in a single blow.

Overall, a much shorter list than Hermione's, but The Dragon basically offers the power of flight, enhanced senses, the ability to breathe magical fire, immense strength, and near-perfect shielding just by itself. If it didn't have the drawbacks of the between-form and that he needs to assume his dragon-self to use most of them, he would be the fantasy-style equivalent of Superman, with the hoard being his kryptonite.


	24. Immured to the Casimir Effect

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Twenty-three-

Immured to the Casimir Effect

Though they were handled somewhat brusquely by the Asgardians who had emerged from the light of the Brifrost, Hermione submitted to the treatment without complaint. She hadn't exactly made provisions for credible witnesses or arranged to have someone overlook or intercede for them, so it was only expected that they be treated with some amount of suspicion. She would have done the same, especially as they hadn't killed Malekith outright. They seemed to assume him dead, but if Loki's touch had flash-frozen him without doing damage to his organs or his brain, Malekith was simply in stasis, like someone who'd consumed the Draught of Living Death.

They took him through the Bifrost as well, like some grotesque statue removed she knew not where, just as the Aether was taken, its influence abruptly lessening after the Asgardian who had charge of it extracted the rest of it from Malekith's icy flesh and imprisoned it in a carrier that looked like a squared lantern made of stone. When it began to glow with the eerie red light, she still had to suppress a shudder, but the wonder of traveling by the Bifrost soon erased all but the memory of the Aether.

She would never express the wish aloud of being stranded here, suspended in space, because she had no illusions that it wouldn't soon become a glittering prison, but her heart made the wish regardless. Here, in the vastness of space, all her worries and concerns which seemed so immediate and overwhelming were in turn overwhelmed, small and petty and short-lived compared to the life of stars. When she was reduced to something less than memory, they would remain. Until the entropic heat death of the universe or a similar fate, in which case everything would cease to matter.

So, as Hermione was escorted firmly through the golden observatory, her heart was at ease. Perspective was more valuable than most people realized, both weapon and shield. Loki was an excellent example of this. Without Morgan's Heart to urge her on, she could divorce herself from the personal hurt and simply plan with the expectation of his eventual betrayal. He was in his own way predictable, especially with the unfair insight offered by Legilimancy. Loki would act in his own self-interest, perhaps almost exclusively and certainly reliably. That made him more vulnerable than he likely realized, because such people made their priorities very clear. It was something like manipulating children, their self-involvement blinding them to the wider world.

Not that she thought him that simple, because no person was, but it would be impossible to make plans without reducing people to their dominant characteristics. Harry, for example, could be depended on to charge on recklessly, regardless of the danger or the people he endangered. For her, it was a trait neither good nor bad, it simply _was_, a quantifiable attribute to be accounted for. Loki's jibe about her brain functioning on numbers and statistics might sting when she liked to be thought of as a warm, humanitarian individual, but when numbers could show her the future with such reliability, what cause had she to discount them?

Those were the thoughts that occupied her as they were taken to somewhere not quite a receiving room, but not quite a holding cell either. She didn't even protest when they were taken to separate refreshing rooms, where Hermione was obliged to strip out of her leathers and cloak and bathe in what seemed more like a fountain than a tub. An upper tier was formed in the manner of three handmaidens with their arms frozen as if a photographer had caught them in the act of joyfully splashing water into the air. Warm water continually poured from their palms into the more temperate, deeper basin below. When she'd first submerged herself, Hermione worried about dirtying the water, but no matter how much of Svartalfaheim's sand she scrubbed from her skin, it was pulled through the drainage ports in the bottom and spouted clean and warm from the top again.

The wound on her arm had been reduced to puckered pink scar tissue, which would also fade in time, but it was stiff and sore, but it was a lesser hurt compared to the backlash from the counterspell to Fiendfyre, which she'd grossly underestimated. She'd made limited use of the spell on occasion. It was a nasty thing even then, but bearable, nothing to cause her to tumble from Loki's back. She hadn't quite appreciated that the difficulty would increase by magnitude, the more targets she offered up to the insatiable flames.

She didn't hurry her grooming, taking care to extract the fine grit that had accumulated in the crevices of the Hands and washing her hair thoroughly. When she could it off no longer, she rose, dripping, from the bath and stepped onto tiles that weren't as chill or slippery as she might have expected.

A spectacularly pretty woman that might have made her feel awkward in comparison, if the situation had been different, had looked on while she bathed. Hermione found without surprise that her wand and armor had been quietly removed and replaced with a dress of the kind that she'd seen Jane wearing.

Regarding it with disfavor, she picked up the gauzy fabric between pinched fingers. Only long experience let her do so without doing damage to the fabric.

The woman, who still hadn't introduced herself, watched her with arms crossed beneath her full breasts. "You should remove your gauntlets before your audience with the Allfather," she said with an air of reserve that made it just short of an order.

"Do you remove your arms?" Hermione asked with only the faintest air of astringency. "If I could remove them, I wouldn't have worn them into the bath."

The woman's eyes, which were a vivid blue-violet, made a slow journey from Hermione's bare feet to the crown of her head. Hermione, however, had the advantage of once attending a boarding school, so the assessment was less embarrassing than it might otherwise have been. Hermione studied the other woman in turn. She was of a height with Hermione, with a much fuller figure that was flattered by the flowing lines of her gown, but her bare arms revealed arms corded with muscle. Her long hair fell down to her hips in wheat-gold waves and a golden circlet gleamed about the crown of her head.

She didn't have Jack to examine herself in, but Hermione was well aware of what she looked like. Thick hair that wasn't properly waves nor curls, instead a forever-tangled mass of both, now well down to her shoulder blades, almost obscuring the dark scarring of the runes that ran down her spine. A thin body, with none of Ginny's classical, near-statuesque lines, the Weasley clan's gangly youngest having filled in just as flatteringly as her elder brothers had. But she didn't mind overmuch, for while thin, she had earned every lithe muscle that lay beneath her skin. Wizards might not have any use for physical combat, but there was a goodly amount of running involved, chases often becoming literal and with reaction time at a premium, there was no room for faltering simply because they were unprepared for a little hardship.

What worried her more were her old scars, the ones caused by Dark magic, which couldn't be erased by simple potions. They told a story of their own, one she wasn't prepared to share.

When she was finished with her perusal, the woman met Hermione's eyes again. "I am Fulla," she announced, "I have been commanded to ensure that you bring no weapons before the Allfather."

"Then I will not be attending an audience with the Allfather, for the weapon I wield which cuts deepest has no edge and cannot be laid aside so easily." Fulla continued to meet her eyes steadily, without any acknowledgement that she understood that Hermione was referring to her wit rather than her magic. Hermione felt an unexpected inclination to have Loki present, for he might have understood, but it was irrelevant, so she quickly pushed it aside. She'd survived well into her thirties without needing someone who understood her understood her particular humor.

"But I will make an oath in good faith, that if no harm is intended toward me and mine, then I have no quarrel with Asgard." Harry would have mocked her for switching over to the formal 'high' speech that closed debates of the Wizemgamot were held in, but it remained an automatic reaction long after she'd officially become a Hit Wizard.

This glib speech seemed to have the opposite effect of the acceptance she'd hoped for. If anything, Fulla seemed even more suspicious of her now, if she were to judge by the deep frown the woman wore. But she seemed to come to some decision. "The dress will not suit you," Fulla said, "for if I judge rightly by your other garments, you are more of the same mind as Sif, but in this meeting your opinion will be disregarded."

Hermione nodded her head in undertanding, turning her attention to dressing. She'd worn skirts as a secretary at S.H.I.E.L.D., but she hadn't worn a gown since she'd come to the Nine Realms version of Earth. She'd worn the witchly approximation of a gown to Ministry functions, but she couldn't help but think of the full skirts as a kind of hobble when she was called to wear it among all these warriors. But at least they were full enough to give her a full range of movement, not like the constricting skirts she'd seen women wearing on Midgard.

Fulla stepped forward to help her dress, though the gown was simple enough, but Hermione almost flinched when her fingers pressed against the skin of her back. She was reassured by the sudden recall that Fulla wouldn't be able to interpret the runes, but the fact that they had been noted was enough. The fabric of the gown was a flattering goose grey and it was sleeveless, a fact she could only be grateful for, for the gowns she'd happened to notice either had sleeves absent or fitted. She could see how the full, billowing sleeves that had been the standard of old-blood Witching fashion since the Middle Ages would be impractical in a warrior culture, but it would have been nostalgic to see someone in the full formal gowns and robes in fantastic colors that had defined Wizarding culture.

When she was dressed and Fulla had combed out her hair, braiding it and pinning it up in a tight corona about her head. Without the aid of magic, Hermione estimated she had about twenty seconds before her hair began making plans to escape the braid, but she kept silent as Fulla led her back the room, which was one of the barest she'd seen, with only long benches against each wall. It was empty as they returned and Fulla motioned abruptly for Hermione to sit, so Hermione did so, taking excessive care in spreading her skirts across her knees.

She entertained herself by constructing arguments and counter-arguments in her head for the coming conversation, though there were several factors that could considerably shift the argument, such as if Thor's point about his right to vengeance proved true. And there remained the fact that she and Harry had been present on Odin's orders, but she didn't doubt that Odin would at least give the impression of punishing them, even if that punishment was an exile back to Midgard.

That was the most reasonable course of action that would allow him to maintain his authority without unduly punishing them for saving the Nine Realms.

She glanced up as Loki was escorted in by a contingent of four fully armored guards. Noticing the direction of her gaze and her raised brows, he smiled self-depreciatingly without quite managing to throw off the cloak of smugness that he wore. He'd been given what she assumed was the Asgardian version of a tunic and breeches in his customary colors, but it was still quite odd to see him not be framed by cloth in the form of cloak or coat. He was slimmer than she expected, without all the leather and fabric, but she didn't doubt that it was deceptive.

Thor and Jane were returned to the room almost immediately after, which caused her a slight pang of worry for Harry. But before she could express her concern to Fulla, Harry was led into the room, somehow distinctly amused despite the fact he was wearing a metal collar about his neck, which had a chain that connected it to the cuffs that chained his wrists together. He had perhaps two inches of slack between his hands, but he wiggled his fingers at her, a gesture made even more humorous by his claws. "I am a 'clear and present threat to the realm'," he told her with a chuckle. "Does no one on Asgard like dragons?"

"Dead dragons make excellent trophies, but we're not so fond of live dragons, no," Loki answered him.

Their guards were not amused by the exchange. One of them stepped forward from the contingent surrounding Harry, his helmet obscuring most of his face. "You will each be brought before the Allfather to plead your case. Each of you will go alone to speak to him. You may entrust your cause to another if you hope to sway his ruling, but none of you can avoid interrogation."

Thor folded his arms across his thick chest, somehow intimidating even without armor. "My cause was just," he said firmly. "I have the law on my side and come freshly victorious from the battlefield. What more need I say? But I will speak to my father regardless, for it should have been he who avenged mother."

Jane darted a hasty glance at Thor, but kept quiet.

Harry spoke. "Hermione can plead my case," he said. "But I want to speak to her privately first."

She wondered what it was he wanted to say, but she would take the opportunity to point out to him that he hadn't fixed a time limit for Odin's confession to Loki, if that was the direction his thoughts had taken. Odin wouldn't be breaking his oath if he laid out his reasoning just moments before his death.

Loki shrugged. "I think that Odin and I have already come to what little understanding is possible between us. I give Hermione Granger leave to speak for me."

Hermione glanced at him sharply and she didn't think it was her imagination that created the sound of Fulla's startled inhale.

"The Silvertongue has nothing to say?" the guard asked caustically. "And he gives a woman the authority to speak for him. Should be search the skies for omens of Ragnorak?"

A knowing smile played on Loki's lips. "Say what you like, but I fear I shall be the one laughing at the end of this farce."

Hermione frowned and she half-turned to Fulla. "Am I obliged to represent him?"

The woman still looked dumbstruck, but after a moment of working her mouth soundlessly, gave Hermione an answer. "No. But only a fool who surrender an opportunity to have an obligation owed by a prince of Asgard, even one in disgrace."

"Well?" Loki said, that smile still playing about the edges of his mouth.

Hermione tilted her head slightly to one side. When she spoke, her tone was cool and clipped. "And if I think you deserve to sit in prison and contemplate what you've done?"

"Could your conscience rest easy, knowing that I'd stood by your side in battle? That I had done what you could not in defense of the Nine Realms?"

"When your motive for doing so is suspect? And what role does conscience play in evaluating when a tool is no longer useful?"

Loki's celadon eyes were thrown into shadow by his lashes, but she caught a spark of temper. "A tool? I thought you less pragmatic than that. But if it is pragmatism I must appeal to, think on this. Rather than reflecting on my misdeeds and gaining a sense of the worth of humanity, don't you think it far more likely that I will simmer in my own thoughts of vengeance until there is no chance at all of my salvation?"

Hermione's lips quirked to one side. "That is the tact you choose to take?"

"Is it the wrong one?" Loki asked, peering up at her from beneath those pitch-dark lashes. "I was under the impression that vulnerability was your greatest weakness."

"And what sort of obligation would I be entitled to?"

"It seems your companion is not the only one who knows greed. My friendship, Hermione Granger. And as our gleaming friend here states, the friendship of a prince is not something to be scoffed at."

"I decline."

This time, Loki was truly startled, sitting straighter on his bench. But before the guards could take any snide pleasure in it, she clarified. "Your point was well made. You'd be more dangerous in prison than free, because you're not the kind to learn from self-reflection. I haven't the faintest idea what would teach you the wrongness of what you did, but whatever it is, it won't be found in that cell. But if I decide I want your friendship, Loki of Asgard, I'll have it honestly. Because I don't make it a habit of having ravening wolves as companions unless I'm convinced that he won't turn on me at the first pang of hunger. So I'll speak for you Loki, perhaps even win you your freedom, but if you genuinely want my friendship, it's something earned, not gifted."

A/N: A new director for Thor 2 gave Asgard a rather more science-fiction vibe than the first film, but aside from a sweeping view of what seemed to be a city of sorts and a few interiors, I wasn't able to get a real 'feel' for his vision except for the impression of scale, use of gold, and the unshakeable impression that the palace-I wasn't clear if it was Valhalla proper-looked distinctly like a pipe organ.


	25. Pragmatism and the Casimir-Polder Force

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Twenty-Four-

Pragmatism and the Casimir-Polder Force

"Come with me." The words, delivered without even the hint of rebuke, censure, or even curiosity, only bemused Hermione. Fulla had left her at the door to the chambers where she had expected to answer Odin's questions, but once inside, she found the long room empty of guards or counselors. Not that she doubted Odin's ability to make short work of them all, but she'd assumed from the way that he maintained that isolated apartment that he was rarely alone.

Still, she complied and bit her tongue to keep her questions to herself, even if that did cause her teeth to scrape painfully against the tender and damaged skin of her inner cheeks. She thought for a moment they would return to the rooms Odin had lent them, but they soon passed out of the halls she was familiar with.

Odin spoke not a word their entire journey, leaving her curiosity to niggle at her. Not even Odin's body language proved revealing, his armor and general martial bearing concealing any private feelings he might have been experiencing.

After a point, Hermione became convinced that it wasn't simply her perception of time to blame. It was a long journey by foot and she was grateful that the shoes she had been provided were more practical than most formalwear shoes tended to be. But it did have the advantage of working some of the remaining soreness from her muscles, so she bore with it, even when they took an underground passage and she was struck by a sudden, irrational feeling that Odin was going to imprison them regardless of being the one to place them on the path of a vengeance committed on the cause of a lie.

But the passage, after dropping what must have been some thirty feet, leveled out and they proceeded onward. She doubted the passage was precisely secret, but it certainly seemed disused, the floorstones cut rock that hadn't yet been worn smooth by the tread of feet over millennia. She blinked when they re-emerged into twilight in a wooded courtyard. Two horses, already saddled, emerged from the deepening shadows, whickering in greeting. One pressed a velvety nose into her palm, but refrained from nibbling with almost un-horselike reserve.

Glancing down at her skirts, then doubtfully at the saddle meant to be ridden astride, Hermione expected difficulty, but found that the gown was cut and layered in such a way that it fell gracefully once she'd mounted the horse Odin directed with a silent indication of his hand. It was only once Odin had set their pace, a brisk walk, down a path that led away from the palace, that he spoke.

"Once," he said, in that voice that soothed the ear and would have felt at home issuing from the front of a classroom, "there was a prince who wanted to be king. And he desired this thing so desperately, it did not matter that his father would have to die and that his ambition might mean war for the realm he wanted to rule. A familiar story, is it not?"

Hermione blinked. "Are we talking of Loki, sire?"

"No. We are speaking of a boy far more foolish than my son, because he accomplished what he set out to do. We are speaking of me."

Hermione was silent at this revelation, turning over the implications of it in her mind. "Would you...explain further?" she asked tentatively.

Odin inclined his head. "That was my intent. I want you to understand something of my nature, so that you will not be surprised by my further choices."

"But why?" the question was surprised from her lips at the completely unexpected act. "Why me? And why tell anyone at all?"

"Because no matter how strong or capable a man might be, even if he is æsir, he is still but one man. I have only two hands, two feet, and one eye. And if I want to make use of your eyes, I must first teach you what it is you are looking for, teach your hands where they should be tender and where they should be firm, teach your feet what can be ground beneath the heel and what must and should be spared. As for why it is you that I choose and not someone of Asgard, it is because you are a stranger here, not given to the biases and beliefs that would cloud your vision when I need it clearest. So I will tell you secrets and you shall swear oaths and we shall build a relationship of mutual obligation based on trust. Do you find this agreeable, Hermione of the Grange?"

Hermione shifted uneasily in the saddle and her horse snorted in response, pricking its ears as if uncertain if she was about to impart direction. "Tony Stark-Thor would have mentioned him as Iron Man-is already sponsoring my studies as a law student. I've agreed to work for him."

Odin glanced at her. "May I make a speculation?"

"Of course," Hermione responded.

"You were once someone who had a very clear purpose and a well-defined goal in life. But once that goal was accomplished, you felt relieved, but also empty. Purposeless. Uncertain of what you should turn your attention to next, because nothing could quite equal what you had already accomplished. You are pursuing what this Tony Stark asks of you not because it is what you desire to do, but because it is a well-defined path and that is good enough for your troubled heart."

"How did you-?" It was odd, to hear this man, who she'd shared so short an acquaintance, articulate her feelings after the war so readily. For seven years, she had kept Harry alive and scrambled to defeat Voldemort. When the battles had finally ended, there had been exultation. And then, later, a sense of being cast adrift. It was part of the reason why she had so desperately set goals for herself, why she'd struggled so hard to bring real change to the Wizarding World. She didn't want her entire life to be defined by what she had achieved at seventeen.

"If you listen to my story, you will understand. Are you willing to indulge an old man?"

"Will you require an oath?"

"Yes. But not to the extent of compelling your service. All I require of you at the moment is your discretion, though secrets are their own shackles."

Hermione hesitated, then nodded to herself and gave him what he asked.

"Very good. And do not think I have overlooked the manner in which you kept silent about Frigga's ruse. I have no doubt she will reveal herself in good time. But to return to the tale of this foolish prince." His absent eye was to her, as he rode to her left, but she thought his gaze turned inward.

"In those days, the Realms were young yet and Asgard not what she is now. But my father ruled it, regardless, and my brothers and I defended her. No matter how far back I stretch my memory, I cannot recall a time then when we were not entangled in some conflict against the other Realms and peoples from outside the known worlds. We were the fierce sons of Bestla the Giantess and the continual war made us hungry for the kind of peace that could only be achieved through conquest, for if there was a diplomacy it was to be found only at the edge of a good blade. That was the world into which this prince achieved what he considered to be adulthood, but his ambitions far exceeded what little temperance and wisdom there was to be learned from such a state of chaos."

He was silent a beat and Hermione fixed her gaze on the rising galaxies that wheeled so vividly across Asgard's night sky. It was like dwelling in the finest planetarium in the world, her view not limited to a smattering of stars reduced to tiny lights, nebulas blazing with light and color contending with deep, velvety darkness. "I have made clear to you the failings of my sons. But my mother was wise when she told me, so very long ago, that it is not in the physical you search for evidence of parentage. Rather, it is in character that a child's mother and father are most clearly reflected. More than Thor's joy in battle, I lusted for it with an obsession that bordered on madness. There was not a fight I turned from, not a war I did not pursue. And I combined it with Loki's capacity for cruelty. I cannot tell you with honesty how many Realms I left in ruins, Midgard not least among them."

"Drunk on my own power, I began to see my father not as a capable leader, my chieftain to whom I owed all, but rather as an obstacle to be out-maneuvered. And my brothers were better companions to me than they were obedient sons to my father-their loyalty was likely better than I deserved, but I won them battles and they shared my vision. My father would have been satisfied to protect Asgard, but we three would see her a queen."

Odin quieted and she glanced at him, only to start in surprise. Where before had ridden a grizzled old king, now sat a golden-haired warrior attired in lighter armor than the Allfather favored. Even the white light of moons and stars could not steal the tawny glow from his hair, which he wore long and loose. Part of the upper section had been pulled back and braided, while two smaller braids fell forward over his shoulders and were secured by golden bands, just as the braid down his back was. Perhaps sensing her attention, he looked over to her and she was struck by his sheer charisma long before his physical attractiveness even entered her mind. Even that simple action, shifting his body slightly to turn to her more easily, seemed a purposeful thing greater than it was. If this was the form he had worn in his youth, she could well see where the ignorant peoples of Midgard would have believed him to be a god, even if his right eye was still absent.

"My guise as a cloaked old man is only effective on Midgard, I fear. But there are few left who recall my youth and fewer still who would act against me should they recognize this form." His hand reached toward the black patch that covered his right eye."But this is a hurt that I cannot cloak in illusion-when I truly looked as this, I had use of both my eyes."

Attempting not to stare, Hermione shifted her gaze elsewhere, finally settling on the fancywork of the saddle. It was one thing to be charmed by one of Thor's companions, quite another to be moved by his father. But glancing down at the saddle revealed that Odin was not the only one cloaked in illusion-she herself had donned armor that somehow managed to have graceful, feminine lines with elaborate traceries in the silver metal. Her other garments were grey, but she noticed a cloak of white had settled about the haunches of her horse.

"But I am again distracted from my course." He shifted so that he looked ahead again. "In my foolishness, I thought my father a short-sighted coward, a woman shivering behind village walls for fear of the wider world. Now I can see that his plan was simply forged on such a scale that in my impatience I thought it no plan at all. Still, I obeyed, for Asgard had not an army sufficient to bring to heel all of the other Realms, some who boasted races as powerful and as old as the æsir. There were no Golden Apples, so my father would eventually die of age if battle did not claim him and then I would be free. But then I met a girl-child who would change my fate forever."

"Frigga?" Hermione ventured uncertainly.

"No. Frigga was still far in my future; it would be a different man who took her to wife. Her name was and is Freya. And what she offered to me was a gift beyond price for a man with the ambition to rule over not merely a city or a planet, but over Realms entire."

"And what was that?" Hermione asked softly.

"An army. Freya had a unique ability to call up the souls of the slain-and Midgard, which had never served as anything more than a staging ground for battles, with its short-lived , backwards peoples, suddenly became the birthplace for my einherjar, those souls of slain warriors that I would call for an endless battle that was to culminate in Ragnarok, the end that the beginning had birthed. I would later happen other who shared her skill, who would choose more carefully and who would become my Valkyrie, but Freya was the first and greatest. My ranks swelled and I was at last able to exercise some of my boundless ambition. Asgard turned her eyes to other Realms and though she conquered only Vanaheim utterly, she was acknowledged as a worthy foe by all who dwelled within the Nine. But still, I was under my father's authority and it had begun to grate."

Odin was silent again and Hermione realized that this ebb and flow would characterize the tale. "There was a skirmish on Jotunheim. Hardly enough to need an army. My brothers and I, as well as my father, took a select group of warriors to end the fighting, but the disturbance was larger than indicated in the reports. It was no matter to my younger self, only a cause for excitement, for the Jotnar are opponents of incredible prowess. They had called up a fierce blizzard and we waged battle in a world writ in white and red, only the clash of weapons to indicate that you did not stand alone on the battlefield. It is imprinted forever in my memory."

"My father and I were separated from the main group and we found ourselves in a partially sheltered valley, where we weren't so blinded by the snow. And there, my father, who had entered the valley first, met a great sorcerer of the Jotunn. He was turned to snow, but there was enough of him left to ask for my aid."

"Could you have done anything?" Hermione ventured.

"Regardless of what I might have done, the fact was that my desire to rule was far greater than my love for my father in that instant. I let him be snatched away by the wind, his last words a request for help that was never given. And I became Asgard's king."

"For a time, I did not regret what I had done, not even in winter, when I thought I could still hear whispers of my father's voice upon the snow-burdened breeze. I made Asgard the queen I had dreamt of and my enemies were subdued, the strength of Svartalfaheim broken, the Jotnar were uncharacteristically silent, the powerful and prophetic people of Vanaheim had been folded into the culture of Asgard. And I stood on a crag, at the end of the world, staring out into the darkness of the universe, feeling more hollow and empty than I had ever felt in the entire course of my existence. My purpose was finished, my battles won, and yet I continued. What was Odin? Why did he exist? For the first time, I had to ask myself those questions."

"And what was your answer?" Hermione asked, almost loath to interrupt the steady cadence of the tale with her own voice, but unable not to ask.

"The answer? The Norns appoint to every man and god a fate, but as it is most often hidden from them, they must do what they think right and so arrive at the end having blazed their own path. That is my mother's wisdom again, but when I stood there, staring out into the darkness that was also a reflection of my own soul, stained pitch-dark with the blood of countless enemies, I had no use for such abstractions. The truth is, I found no answers that night, Hermione of the Grange. Nor for many, many years after. I dedicated myself instead to the kind of rule that my father had taught to me, rather than the savagery that was my nature. And, eventually, I came to know regret. It would be millenia before any realm would look upon me as king rather than conqueror, even as I surrendered most of the footholds I had gained in the Realms, choosing instead to protect and preserve what I'd once so easily destroyed."

"This is why I can understand Loki, because I was once very similar to him, but I will not stand idly by while he commits himself to the path I once walked. The Realms are a very different place; there are far more souls at stake now than when I sowed the blood of many races on the plains of Midgard. Take from the tale what understanding you will. But we approach now my request."

Hermione waited for him to speak, but they'd been drawing further from the crowded central habitations as they rode. Now they had arrived at an arched hall, not constructed from metal like so many of the buildings, but rather carved of wood. Odin dismounted and waited for her to do the same.

When his hand was laid upon the door pull, a shudder of light pulsed through the doors, an aurora in miniature, waves of blue and green undulating across a surface that depicted two shieldmaidens, shields raised but swords lowered. "Come inside," he invited, pulling them outward and allowing Hermione to enter first.

"Valhalla is home to many treasures. But they are precious to the state; here is where I keep the reminders of what is most precious to the man I now am." He led her through the long room, where magnificent beasts nearly overwhelmed the room and obscured the weapons, armor, and other treasures displayed on the walls, to a smaller chamber. Shaped like a half-circle, it was decorated in a very odd manner when contrasted with the first room. Opposite the door they had entered was a large portrait of a woman who was recognizably Frigga. The portrait was buttressed by narrow, tall windows. Three portraits were arranged to either side of Frigga's, each separated from the one next to it by more of the windows. She recognized two of the subjects instantly, even though they too were depicted as much younger than she knew them to be presently. Thor and Loki.

"My family," Odin explained unnecessarily.

Hermione studied the portraits with care. "I knew you had other sons, but Thor and Loki act as if they were your only sons to such a degree I had started to disbelieve the myths."

Odin came to stand beside her. "Thor and Loki cast my other sons into shadow, which displeases some of their brothers and matters little to others. Tyr is the one most displeased by the attention paid to them, but you are unlikely to meet him. He spends little time on Asgard. Hermod or Vidar you might encounter."

"And the last?" Hermione knew the answer, if the myths were true, but asked regardless."

"Balder is the reason we have come here. I will put an end to the enmity between Loki and Thor by removing at least one major point of contention between them. The throne of Asgard, in my absence, will be assumed by the only one of my sons truly fit to be king. Do you believe it possible to resurrect the dead, Hermione of the Grange?"

Hermione stared blankly at Odin for a long moment. "Possible? Perhaps. I thought the prophecies all spoke of Balder as being resurrected after Ragnarok?"

"They do. But they do not preclude that he should be raised before then, only that he will live again after the Realms are destroyed."

Hermione worried her lip, turning back to the portrait. She began to understand why Loki's physical appearance hadn't raised suspicion of his blood having arisen from a different source. Each of Odin's sons was very different in coloring and build, to the point she wouldn't have been able to identify them as family if they were mingled in a crowd. But there was something...pleasant about Balder, even in portrait. The artist had captured the essence of the Loki and Thor she knew, so she trusted that his depiction was suitably accurate in Balder's case. His eyes laughed, but not with the smug satisfaction present in Loki's smirk. His expression was suffused with the same warmth, but it was tempered by reserve.

He was depicted wearing a purple tunic and mail ensemble that was nearly swallowed by the thick white pelt that covered his shoulders and obscured the arm of the chair he was sitting in. A book was clasped loosely in his hands, but it was at such an angle it was impossible to read the title. A sheathed sword was propped against the arm of the chair.

Her gaze finally traveled to his face. It was appalling, how many beautiful men this Realm had produced, but there was something about Balder that made him superior to all of them, though she couldn't pick out a particular feature that made him more appealing than his brothers. His hair was a deep red, worn shorter than most of the others, but in his case it simply seemed that there was less to distract from the clean, appealing lines of his face.

"He looks...kind," she said at last.

"He was the best of us," Odin said. "But it was his mother's partiality that was the end of him as well."

"She made everything in the universe promise not to harm him, but forgot to extract a promise from mistletoe. And Loki tricked the blind Hod into killing him with it. That's how it goes in Midgard's myths."

"In the barest sense of the word, that is the truth. But it is not so simple as that. When we discovered what Frigga had done, I began to despair of ever allowing Balder to accompany his brothers, for Thor was forever trapping him the lairs of the most dangerous beasts the Realms could offer and Tyr was little better. It became a game among the æsir. A challenge, almost, for once they began to believe in the truth of his invulnerability, the æsir began to seek out ever more exotic weapons to test against him. And Loki determined that he would win the challenge, not by seeking the obviously dangerous, but seeking something that Frigga had forgotten. And he found it in mistletoe."

There was a tightness to Odin's jaw, but he revealed no other sign of emotional distress. "Mistletoe is a parasite. A tiny, clinging thing lost in the vastness of proper trees. I have heard your myths, but I have never seen mistletoe grow great or straight enough to form an arrow. It was little more than a long splinter. Loki did not desire his brother's death, for he could have turned that splinter on any other æsir and it would have been little more than an irritation. He was not certain that he had chosen correctly, which is why he entrusted the use of it to Hod. If it failed, it was Hod who had tried such a pitiful weapon. If it succeeded, he could claim that it was his cleverness that had outthought his mother. But the damage it inflicted was disproportionate to the wound dealt. Even Frigga was at a loss."

"Did she...hold it against Loki?" Hermione asked carefully.

"No. Though she had favored Balder, she loved all her sons, those of her heart and those of her flesh alike. Of these six, only three were born to Frigga and I. But of these six, only Loki is aware that she isn't his mother in truth. And that is the way I intend it to remain."

Hermione contemplated this, trying to guess of the remaining four who was and was not related to the regal, cunning woman she'd seen only on her byre.

"So you want Harry and I to attempt to resurrect Balder?" she asked at last, when she was unable to do so.

"I will make a ruling in two days," Odin said. "About what punishment my sons will incur for risking placing the Aether into hands eager to wield it for the ill of all the Realms. At that time, I will command them to cooperate in an attempt to bring their brother home from Hel's kingdom. Neither of them will regain their status as princes of Asgard until they succeed, taking them entirely from contention for the throne. Vili and Ve, my brothers, departed long ago to seek a method of doing so, but I will recall them and they will sit as regents at Frigga's side when I must enter the Odinsleep. You and Harry are to accompany my sons."

"Do you really think they will be able to cooperate with each other for any length of time, let alone to hand over the throne they were willing to do battle for to anyone else, even their brother?"

This time, the look in Odin's single eye was hard. "This time, I will not give them a choice."


	26. Clarity According to the Antoniadi Scale

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Twenty-Five-

Clarity According to the Antoniadi Scale (Part I)

Harry pressed the palm of his hand against the barrier of the cell, ignoring Thor's call to have care. The energy fluxed around his hand in with a stinging sensation, as if dozens of tiny bees had landed on his skin and one or two had decided him a threat, but it was only uncomfortable. Thor gaped at him as he pulled his hand back.

"Something wrong?" he asked, lips tugging upwards despite himself.

"The barrier...," Thor said, then silenced himself.

"Ah." Harry said, then without further warning plunged his arm elbow deep in the energy, which flexed around his arm like a glow, but didn't shatter. He could sense, however, that it neared its limits to contain him. The Dragon was satisfied that if the hoard's distress reached him, it could defend what was his, settling smugly into the back of his mind. Though there was still a faint tinge of resentment at being denied the Aether, which might have briefly saddened his Hermione, but The Dragon knew that the strength of her song would have mingled with the battle march of the Aether, creating a powerful and incomparable treasure.

Thor made another strangled noise of protest.

Sighing, Harry gave up his testing of the limits of the cell, which was furnished sparsely enough, but was far more comfortable than any of the holding rooms at the Ministry. Which typically features semi-sentient chains as a decor element. There were eight cells in this long room, but only four of them were occupied. Jane was housed directly across from Harry, Thor's cell nearest the door to the left, while Loki was housed to Jane's right. Harry was alone on his side of the room and the wards on his cell glowed in a subtly different pattern from the others. But thought they might have been designed to hold even the likes of Thor and Loki once they had been disarmed, it seemed that it wasn't capable of holding a dragon.

"Um," Jane said, making Harry glance over at her, "so you were a dragon all along? I'm just asking because, well, Thor seemed so surprised by it."

"He first met me as a secretary at S.H.I.E.L.D., so I don't doubt he was surprised," Harry said.

"It really was an almost flawless performance," Loki interjected.

"Well, I wasn't _always _a dragon," Harry replied in a low voice. "It's easier to pretend when you remember what it was like to be human."

Thor's brows furrowed. "And what act of greed caused you to become a blight on your Realm?"

"It wasn't an act of greed, but an act of arrogance," Harry muttered, scowling at Thor's continuing adherence to blatant anti-dragon sentiment. "And it cost Hermione and I everything."

Loki's eyes narrowed at this and he wondered what had struck the unpredictable god's fancy. "What, exactly," he asked, "are you and Hermione to each other? It didn't seem relevant at the time, but your secretary-self was wearing a wedding band. And you are seldom seen singly."

Harry mulled over confessing at least a part of the truth. Hermione was the one who wove such convoluted deceptions, but whether she would see the wisdom in it or not, she wasn't here and it was therefore his decision to make.

"Hermione and I are in-laws. We married siblings. On our-" here he decided to prevaricate, as they obviously believed in the existence of planets beyond the acknowledged Nine, "world, there are two kinds of people. Those with magic and those without. I suppose you might call the latter the 'normal' people, but Wizarding kind calls them Muggles. And for some Wizards, that's a slur equivalent to calling someone an animal. There are all kinds of arguments to justify what they do to them-Muggles don't leave ghosts, so there's no way to prove conclusively that they have souls-but in the end, all the arguments agree on a single point. No matter what they might achieve, Muggles are something less than fully human because they lack magic."

"And all of you feel this way?" Jane demanded, her tone suddenly frigid and defensive.

"Of course not. If we did, Wizards would rule over a race of slaves, rather than strictly enforcing a policy of secrecy that is for everyone's protection."

Jane's brows furrowed and her expression softened, but not to the point of initial warmth. Now a detached, scientific curiosity was layered over her question. "You said no matter what they achieve-these Muggles, they don't possess advanced technology?"

"They do."

"Then there must be very few Wizards and even fewer dragons, otherwise they would have been discovered, especially if such things as satellite images exist. I've seen your dragon. I don't think any military would be willing to overlook _that_."

"Statistically, there are fewer Wizards than Muggles, but we can-" he hesitated briefly, but decided to proceed in the new spirit of honesty. Let Loki and Hermione manipulate each other in what he felt were increasingly pointless games of one-upmanship. The Dragon was competitive, but the subtle games that the two magic-users practiced were so far beneath its notice as to be inconsequential. It was its decided opinion that if Loki bothered the hoard so greatly, he ought to be eaten or broken, not toyed with. There were no comprehension at all of long, political games in The Dragon's mind and Harry himself had had limited patience for them.

He'd spent most of his life being manipulated by a lack of information and he couldn't help but think that a little less clandestine maneuvering and a little more openness about the reality of Voldemort's threat might have won them the aid they needed to destroy the Horcruxes before Voldemort managed to resurrect himself and make that threat real. If the exercise in trust went badly, they would deal with it, but if it didn't, then they would have powerful, trusted allies in their quest to return home. If the æsir could bridge gaps between dimensions, who likelier to discover a way to return them to their Earth? Odin had said there was no such thing, but Harry refused to believe that he was some sort of all-knowing being. The poor way he'd handled his sons was proof enough that there was more humanity to the gods than they were willing to admit to. And just because such a route didn't presently exist didn't mean that it couldn't be discovered or built.

No, alliances founded on half-truths didn't set well with him.

"We call it making an area Unplottable-" he used his hands to describe a shape not unlike a valley protected by overhanging cliffs that nearly touched. "Muggles can't see it, not on their satellites, and they find that they either pass right through to the other side of the area, or they instinctively avoid it. Most people don't bother to go through all the trouble for their house-they just make unwelcome visitors forget why they came or otherwise repulse them, but I've seen houses in urban areas that just seem to unfold out of nothing when you approach them-" he paused when he saw Jane staring wide-eyed at him.

"You're just casually admitting that Wizards can fold space-time at will-that they use it like a security system," she said in an astounded voice.

Harry hesitated. "Yes?" he ventured finally.

"...and you barely have any idea of how remarkable that is. Which means it's so pervasive you don't even think about it." She had crossed her arms tightly across her chest, her expression somewhere between exasperation and irritation. "At least Asgardians are aware of how amazing their technology is. How is it accomplished?" she pressed.

Harry blinked his translucent inner lids. "...it's an incantation, which means that even if I told you, it would sound like I'm spouting gibberish."

Jane's expression morphed into an earnest scowl. "And you'd just stare at me blankly if I asked you to reconcile physics of any kind with what you're describing."

Harry nodded agreeably. "You have no idea how bizarre I find it that the æsir have this odd veneer of scientific stretched across clearly magical phenomena."

"Go on," Jane said, fluttering her hand at him.

Harry tried to recall where he'd been before they'd entered this conversational side trip. "Statute of Secrecy. Right. Anyway, just like any culture, we have self-entitled Wizards who think they can do whatever they please simply because they _can._" He frowned. "Most of the crime in our world is handled through the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, because most Wizards just want to have a lark meddling with Muggle bits and bobs. Some of them are malicious, like the Wizard who wouldn't stop enchanting Muggle wardrobes so that they ate and imprisoned their owners, but most are just silly pranks that Muggles will dismiss as being odd and nothing more. The month before we...left, there was a spree of enchanted toasters in London. Things would launch toast from their slots with enough force to shatter glass."

Thor gave a meaningful glance toward Loki's cell and though it was impossible that Loki saw it, his half-grin indicated that he would likely have been among the repeat offenders.

"But for more serious crimes, we have the equivalent of Muggle police-the Aurors. And then for criminals beyond that, we have Hit Wizards."

"And which were you?" Loki asked perceptively.

"Hermione and I were Hit Wizards." He paused, recalling how Hermione had disliked revealing this part of Wizarding society to Odin, but he felt it was important that they understood just how dangerous the Wizards they chased were regarded to be. "We only have one prison."

"Just the one?" Loki asked puckishly.

"Azkaban is a fortress in the middle of the sea. And it is guarded by creatures whose very presences devours every memory of happiness or light. These same creatures are our chosen method of execution for criminals as well," he said tightly. He held Loki's gaze as he said the next sentence. "If you had done what you did on my world, your soul would have been devoured and your body left an empty, defenseless shell. Or you would have been stripped of your rights before the Wizengamot and you would have been pursued and killed by someone like Hermione and I. That's what we were employed by our government to do."

"So you were warriors, after all," Thor said.

"The closest Wizarding equivalent, I suppose. Our squad was assigned a target and we pursued him. Hermione and I went against by ourselves, because-," he grimaced, deciding against revealing the full, complex reason behind the choice. It was one thing to identify himself as a Wizard, another to reveal his distinct position within that society as Prophesied Savior and war hero. "Well, the reason isn't particularly important, I guess. We thought we were prepared and we'd cornered our target. Or so we thought. As it turned out, we'd cornered ourselves and we paid for it. We found ourselves on your Midgard, Hermione fused with enough magic and metal that she sung with it and I-I was a dragon. We joined S.H.I.E.D. because of Dr. Selvig's work and your own," he said with a nod toward Jane. "All we wanted," he took a deep, gusty breath, "was to go home."

His smile was a little crooked. "But it seems like we got ourselves entangled with some much bigger problems."

And, from the other cells, there was only silence.

It was Jane who broke it. "You said you were married?" She bit her lip in a gesture reminiscent of Hermione. "Did you have a family? How long were you on Earth?"

"Years," Harry said softly. "It won't be long before we're declared properly dead. And Ginny and I-we didn't have children yet. And I can only be grateful for that, because it would have made being where we were never meant to travel that much worse. We thought we had a very long time together, plenty of time to enjoy our own lives and careers before-." He cut himself off. Didn't mention that part of the reason they had delayed having children, aside from Ginny's Quidditch career, was the lingering threat of those that still held deeply-engrained pureblood sentiments and who hadn't yet been brought to justice. "Ginny probably suspects that I'm still alive. The trip didn't break our Vow, but The Dragon muddied it. But it'll break when the Wizengamot declares me dead. But even if we were to go home, after so long, I doubt the best Healers in the world would be able to make us what we were."

It was Loki, unexpectedly, who spoke next. "What about this enemy of yours? Did you manage to kill him?"

"Taking revenge?" Harry's smile was bitter. "We don't know what happened to him, but the spiteful part of me hopes that he died transferring us to this world."

Thor had been quiet, his gaze fixed on the floor his cell. He looked up then, and the expression on his face was shame. "I am sorry, Harry Potter, to have judged you so harshly. I did not realize the complexity of your position."

Harry shrugged. "You defended me before Sif, when you thought I was a shapeshifter," he pointed out. "And Hermione has done her best to make certain I'm not at a total loss when it comes to Norse myths. She's...dedicated when it comes to research." He turned an ironic look on Loki. "It's not like we don't have magical beasts in our world, some of which are actively nasty. I wouldn't have it in me to be polite to a Boggart or to make nice with Dementor. And your dragons are something like that. I would appreciate, since you now know that I am _not _Fafnir or whatever ever beastie you'd care to compare me to, that we pretend that I really am a shapeshifter. Because if you try to slay me, I'm going to feel compelled to try and eat you."

Thor laughed at that. "I suppose we can make the compromise."

"While this spirit of confession is touching, I don't suppose you would care to enlighten us as to why Hermione is conspicuously absent from this conversation. It has been hours since she was taken before the Allfather, yet she hasn't returned." This was from Loki.

His draconic senses, not limited in precisely the same way as his human ones, could pick out the faintest notes of Hermione's song. Distant, but at ease. "I'm sure she'll be touched that you were worried, but I don't know what's keeping her, unless she took the opportunity to compare the history of the world as recorded in Norse myths against what Odin has to say about it."

"What would it matter, when compared to the menace we had just faced?" Thor asked bemusedly.

"Hermione finds misinformation very upsetting," Harry said dryly.

"Given the Allfather's mood during our conversation, I doubt he was feeling generous enough to answer questions from impertinent young women," Loki said. "Which still leaves the mystery as to why your companion hasn't been returned. Although I must say, it is fortunate in regards to the fact that I find it highly unlikely that she would have confessed your origins so readily."

"To someone she doesn't trust? No, she wouldn't, but she was never terribly good at making friends in school, either. Myself, I figure I really will follow up on that threat of eating you if you try to use something I told you against me. Try as you like, Loki, I'm not afraid of you," Harry replied steadily.

"Is that because you think me weak?"

"It's because I think myself a dragon and dragons are not particularly fallible to emotional manipulation. I might remember being human, strive to maintain it, but if you press me, I really will let The Dragon decide things and it comes up with very simple solutions to complex problems. _I _might feel bad about killing you, but he doesn't."

"You think it so easy a thing to accomplish?" Loki snarled.

"I have no idea. And so long as we're allies, let us hope that I won't discover how hard or easy it is," Harry snarled in return, allowing his lips to reveal not-quite-human teeth.

Loki regarded him for a long moment. "Fair enough," he allowed at last, his face returning to its habitual expression of disdainful amusement.

"So we are allies, then?" Thor asked, glancing from Harry to the direction of his brother's cell.

"Better than being enemies, isn't it?"


	27. Antoniadi Scale (Part II)

A/N: Because I don't foresee an organic way to integrate this into the story, this explanation for the inclusion of Thor and Loki's siblings will have to suffice. I know the MCU ignores the existence of the other four, but if I was going to resurrect Balder, I thought I might as well establish the others while I was at it. It is a melding of the comics and myths to the point where it really resembles neither.

Tyr, god of war, is the eldest son of Odin and Frigga and therefore feels that the throne of Asgard should be rightfully his during his father's Odinsleep. When he openly rebelled against the idea of Thor being made king, he was removed from the line of succession and has since been on campaign afield in the Nine Realms.

Vidar is next eldest, but while Odin openly acknowledges him as his son to Hermione, he is out of the line of succession by his own free choice, despite being the god of strength. Odin's son by the Frost Giantess Grid, he is destined to kill both kill Fenrir and survive Ragnarok. Though Odin stated in chapter 24 that only Loki knew of his true parentage, Vidar once asked Frigga who his true mother was and received an honest reply. Unlike Loki, however, he had always suspected something of the sort-he had a jotunn's stature and strength, though not their coloring-and accepted the truth with grace, acknowledging Frigga as the mother of his heart and as the Queen he would continue to serve despite his parentage. He maintains a large stead outside Asgard proper, where he lives with his wife Solveig. Due to his long absence, neither Thor nor Loki is aware that Vidar is their half-brother.

Thor is next in birth order, then Loki, and then Balder. Marvel identifies him as Balder the Brave, but _TRuS_ Balder will be of "the white, the good" persuasion, god of light and innocence. "He is best, and all praise him; he is so fair of feature, and so bright, that light shines from him...He is the wisest of the æsir, and the fairest-spoken and most gracious; and that quality attends him, that none may gainsay his judgments." Though he is the true son of Odin and Frigga, it was given out that he was brought in as a fosterling in order to protect him from a prophecy which Frigga's actions made self-fulfilling. So it was assumed by all that he was outside the line of succession and his soft-spoken and humble nature endeared him to both Thor and Loki.

Hermod is the youngest son, the god of speed, and something of a nonperson compared to his larger than life siblings, but isn't particularly interested in either politics or battles. He makes use of his position as Odin's messenger to explore the Nine Realms and beyond, which means he is often absent, especially when his brothers are quarrelling. There is such a significant age gap between he and his brothers that Thor and Loki were full-grown and well set in their ways before Hermod was even born.

And, after publishing the last chapter, I find that Marvel has chosen to render Höðr as Hoder rather than Hod, so when I get a moment I'll go back to correct it, but I didn't want anyone wondering, "Who's that?" He is the god of winter and Thor's cousin by way of Odin's brother Vili. He's blind and typically rendered as an old man, but he'll appear of an age with Thor and the others if he makes an appearance in this fic.

So, there shouldn't be anything in their existence that would contradict any of the movies. Think of it as simply building upon them.

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Twenty-Six-

Clarity According to the Antoniadi Scale (Part II)

Harry sat cross-legged on the floor of his cell, currently occupied in indulging Jane, who'd pulled the cushions from the hybrid couch-lounge-bed and made herself comfortable inches from the energy field that enclosed her own cell.

He liked the flash of brilliance in her eyes when he said something contradictory to Newtonian gospel, the eager fire as she tried to rationalize magic and the determination when her own explanations weren't to her satisfaction. In the long hours they had been in the cells, he had discovered behind the dry reports that Hermione had praised and the impersonal facts he knew about her career a woman more in love with her science than she was in lust with Thor, pragmatic and rational, but also somewhat distant from social norms.

She was more interested in quizzing him on magical theory than eating the banquet in miniature that had been presented to them for dinner and though she was an astrophysicist, it was the first and only time in Harry's life that the facts learnt in Care of Magical Creatures had been useful in making conversation with a woman who wasn't Hermione. Who Jane strongly reminded him of, except with less of Hermione's pretensions and insistence that everyone should bring their standard of conversation up to match hers when she was perfectly capable of stating whatever point she was trying to say plainly. Jane was clearly extremely intelligent, but when it came to everything but astrophysics, she was direct and intelligible.

And the look on Thor's face when she'd requested he take his shirt off so he could display his scale patterns and wings deserved to have been immortalized by Wizarding camera. Harry had thought briefly that about reassuring the blond æsir that Jane was in all likelihood viewing him as a laboratory specimen, gender irrelevant, but it had really been too hilarious.

She was currently occupied in mulling over the physics involved in Quidditch, brows furrowed. "And these brooms just _fly_?" she asked skeptically. "With no conventional propulsion at all? And there are brooms that can go over a hundred miles per hour?"

Harry nodded, but the deep wrinkle that had formed on her brow didn't smooth out. "You've got to be joking if you expect me to believe that school students with no special strength training have the grip strength necessary to even keep hold of an object moving at a hundred miles per hour in straight line, let alone in the kind of maneuvers you've just told me about. And what you've described is essentially sitting astride a less than two-inch thick immovable bar. What about male genital damage?"

Harry heard Thor choke quietly, but Harry tried very hard to keep his expression neutral, because Jane wasn't finished. "Or broken pelvises in general or at the very least dislocated hips? The human body isn't _meant _to withstand those kinds of forces."

Harry shrugged. "Magic," he answered, which was generally his end explanation to all her questions.

Jane scowled, then sighed, tilting her head back to glare at the ceiling darkly. "Would it kill them to at least let me look at the sky if they're going to keep me here?" she said. "I was a little too busy _dying _earlier to really study your dimension's stars properly. It's dark by now, isn't it? I'd rather observe the Bifrost, of course, but what kind of information do they think I'll take from observing your astronomical phenomena. Your starscape is completely different than what even the most powerful telescopes can see from the Milky Way-it's almost as if we've regressed billions of years and I'm watching the universe form." She glanced toward Thor's cell. "The Bifrost doesn't take us through time, does it? Of course, there was always that chance, because of the uncertainty of what would wait beyond an event horizon-besides spaghettification-but your Einstein-Rosen Bridge seemed like a naked singularity."

Jane frowned. "Unless," she posited, "we really are closer to the origin point of the universe and the galaxies here still more compact, more closely neighboring each other, than the galaxies surrounding the Milky Way. Which would make sense, because if Asgard and the surrounding galaxies are clustered more densely in space, the gravity from each of the systems might slow the process of galactic drift, while others like the Milky Way are being acted upon more strongly by the repulsive force inherent in dark energy because there isn't enough gravity from neighboring systems to maintain their current positions."

Harry's brows rose. "So one day we'll be looking out into a dark, mostly empty sky, with the exception of the stars of our own galaxy?"

Jane snorted. "First of all, this is a process on a timescale of billions of years. Unless you're talking about "we" in the vaguest genetic sense, only scientists who do this for a living will even notice it happening in even _his_ lifetime," she said, stabbing her thumb toward Thor. "Second, the Milky Way will collide and merge with the Andromeda system long before that happens. Third, by that point, the luminosity of the sun will have made Earth uninhabitable, so who knows what sort of night sky will be our descendents basis for comparison. Although that _is _a good question. Do Asgardians know if or when the universe will stop expanding? According to the myths, your father _created _Midgard like some men would build a house. Surely he should know."

"If he does," Loki said dryly, "he isn't telling anyone."

"But, judging by your sky, you do have star systems much close to you than the Milky Way does. Eventually your star system will merge with those galaxies, won't it?"

"Undoubtedly," Loki's tone was all but drought-parched.

"Then about dark energy-"

"Do you want to be allowed to return to Midgard?" Loki retorted. "If you wish to do so with your memories intact, I advise you to be at least circumspect in your questions."

"Brother, it cannot hurt to explain-," Thor tried, but Loki interrupted him.

"It surely could do more damage than you think, which you so rarely bother to do. _If _Miss Foster returns to Midgard brimming with the potential for technology far beyond what the mortals' society is sufficiently evolved to use wisely, they will find themselves quickly embroiled in a war they will not be prepared to wage. And, indirectly, _she _would be the cause of all that devastation. Is that the kind of legacy you hunger for, Miss Foster?"

Jane's shoulders briefly pulled forward, as if to shelter herself from Loki's scathing words, but then she straightened them. "I'm not seeking to create weapons-that was S.H.I.E.L.D. Eric and I have only _ever _been interested in broadening our understanding, which is never a bad thing." But when she was finished with her speech, she slumped forward again, frowning.

Which made Harry frown in turn. Even if she had been lambasting magic's irrationality, it had been a long, long time since he'd someone approach magic as something new and wonderful. Even if he'd missed the Sorting several years, there had been something ultimately refreshing at watching the First Years wide-eyed awe at a Great Hall and its majestic enchantment, the sky captured in all its temperamental glory in the vaulted ceiling.

The reminder made him rise abruptly, Jane's head jerking upward sharply to follow his movement. Stepping on his own bed, Harry explained in broken phrases what he was doing. "Hermione was always so superior about these enchantments...swear that she could have consulted on that blasted book...so I learned it in self-defense..." He stretched upward so that his fingers pressed against the ceiling after he'd aped the appropriate wand movements without a wand, which made him feel quite ridiculous, but regardless darkness spread from where he touched, galaxies and stars spinning into their appropriate places as the enchantment seeped out of his cell and across the rest of the ceiling.

When he turned back, Jane was open-mouthed as she stared upward and even Loki and Thor appeared startled. "Is this..." Jane asked breathlessly, "Is this what it really looks like?"

Harry's lips tipped upward. "What, not going to interrogate me on how it works? Tell me that I'm violating some obscure law of thermodynamics?"

"There are no obscure laws of thermodynamics," Jane answered him absently. "Just hypotheses that failed to gain agreement from the scientific community, which means they aren't laws at all." She turned toward him and he was alarmed to find that her dark eyes were suspiciously watery. "It's beautiful," she breathed.

In the silence that followed, it was Loki who said, "And _that _is how you seduce a woman, brother."

But Jane wasn't so entranced by Harry's magic that she was unable to answer for herself. "For the record, _I _attacked _Thor_, not the other way around, because unlike _some people_, he didn't want to make any promises he couldn't keep. Even if he did happen to fail to contact me in New York," and Thor winced slightly at that accusation, "it took me two years to think about doubting his promise. It's take more than some stars on a ceiling, sweet as the gesture is, to make me decide that Harry is the better choice. No offense," she said, turning slightly toward Harry. "And it really is an extraordinary piece of magic."

"No offense taken," Harry said lightly. "It wasn't meant to sweep you off your feet." He grinned, suddenly feeling quite impish. "I have a whole specialized magical skillset for that. Benefit of being married to a woman with high expectations."

Jane laughed, but then ignored all three of them in favor of enjoying the recreated sky.

Eventually Harry retreated to his bed and slept away the worst of the battle aches, though it wasn't precisely restful. It was the most separation he'd endured from Hermione, or rather his hoard, since they'd arrived. And while her song indicated she was perfectly safe, The Dragon was ill at ease when he couldn't cast a watchful eye over his treasures when it pleased him to do so. That was one fact he hadn't seen fit to share with Hermione; even best friendship might be tested by creepy habits. When he'd lost the battle to The Dragon's insistence on a threat to the hoard-kin's safety on their first days on Asgard, Harry had thought Hermione would be much less tolerant of their changed sleeping situation, but she'd taken it in stride, even the few times when he'd had to all but nearly throw himself off the bed to counter The Dragon's habit of encroachment on space that he considered his.

The hoard was his, so therefore her side of the bed also belonged to him. Harry had patrolled his own thoughts with a carefulness he hadn't had to practice since the days of Voldemort, because while Hermione simply shot him another of the innumerable permeations of annoyed glance she was capable of, Harry didn't want to test her understanding of the fact that The Dragon wanted to sleep scale-to-magic, which would be all well and good with a normal treasure trove, but it was decidedly awkward when it was your best friend. Although he was unutterably grateful that it was Hermione rather than Ron-Harry didn't have issues with people of flexible sexual inclinations, but he was certainly not one of them. And, well, Ron was Ron was Ron. Even over a decade, financial success, and public acclaim hadn't completely erased some of his obnoxious characteristics.

Harry slept more deeply toward morning, waking only when his enchantment sent the sun pricking irritatingly at his eyes. Opening them, he listened for Hermione, to find that she'd drawn closer but she still wasn't _here. _

Which, considering that he was still among the company of everyone else that had been on their venture to save the Nine Realms as they knew them, was decidedly odd.

And he declared it so when the guards that brought them breakfast departed. But no one else had a better answer than he did.

Out of spite, he was bit freer with his stories than he really should have been, but he ignored the faint twinge of his conscience, for his openness the day before had reaped an unexpected benefit. Thor now seemed to view it as a competition and if the look of dawning horror and attempted interruptions on Loki's part were any indication, Thor was being considerably more incautious then Harry himself was. He dealt in generalities of the Wizarding world, with no more than a few mentions of people in specific, but Thor spared no details, even the embarrassing ones.

He was in the middle of a story about Hermione's dashing golden boy when Harry became aware of Hermione's approach.

Thor stopped speaking when the door opened and Hermione stepped through, no longer wearing the grey gown that she'd went to her interrogation in. Still a gown, which was a somewhat odd sight on her, but now it was a soft red-tinged gold that almost matched the metal of Morgan's Heart.

He started to say something, but Hermione's gaze had traveled to the ceiling and despite the warm, perfectly pleasant day that it displayed, her expression was briefly thunderous though it was quickly replaced with a careful neutrality.

"Where would you like me?" she asked her escorts, who were flanking her so closely she would barely have room enough to shrug.

"You won't be here long. You can share space with the other mortal woman," her guard replied and the one to her left stepped briskly forward, halting to one side of the cell Jane was occupying.

"Step back from the ward," he ordered and Jane eyed him, then slowly rose and placed herself against the black wall of the cell. The yellow light that indicated the ward that was active flickered out and Hermione stepped forward and through.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Hermione said as politely as if they'd opened the door to someplace far more pleasant than an Asgardain cell. Which was still a cell, no matter the creature comforts they'd been provided with.

"Have a nice, enlightening chat?" Harry asked when the guards had left. "That took two days?" he said more pointedly.

"You'll know soon enough," Hermione murmured. "We'll be called to Odin's judgment shortly."

"Is that a prophecy or an announcement?"

"An announcement," Hermione replied, her gaze toward him now curious. She glanced upward at the ceiling again before visibly suppressing the question either question or accusation. It wasn't a necessary-for-survival kind of magic, so she doubtless disapproved.

"Curious of the Allfather to delay so long," Loki said, but Hermione didn't respond to the obvious conversational ploy. "But you must be used to it, given how spectacularly inefficient your Wizengamot sounds."

Now her gaze was sharp, cutting, and clearly accusing.

Harry tried for a tone of mild conciliation. "They can't trust us, Hermione, if they don't know anything about us. And it's not fair to expect them to, especially when you wouldn't be content to do the same in their place. So I told them a little about how our world works."

Jane decided at that moment to defend his decision, which was very much a bad idea. "He's right," she said staunchly. It's like when separate labs work on a project and refuse to share data. If they collaborated, they could eliminate redundancies and pursue more avenues of inquiry, but instead let ego get in the way. Unless this is about us-well, me-being a Muggle? I think the concept of a Statute of Secrecy is ridiculous and condescending in the extreme, given that it sounds like the technology on your world is almost as advanced as on ours."

Hermione's voice, when she spoke, was very controlled. "Exactly what _did _you tell them, Harry?" Somehow the syllables of his name had never so closely resembled a whipcrack.

"This _isn't _our world," Harry said, striving for the same level of calm even when he was torn beneath getting angry or taking shelter beneath his bed. "There's no such thing as a Statute of Secrecy here."

"_We _are here," she retorted instantly, "which means that while that law might be meaningless to them," she swept her arm wide to indicate the others, "it is still in effect for us. We bring our law with us and operate within its boundaries. You-" she bit down hard on her bottom lip.

"He's doing what he thought was right. And by his description of the way you Wizards view Muggles, it's something that might have been useful on your world as well," Jane insisted stubbornly. Harry had no idea why she'd chosen this moment to make a case for this, but he made a silent realization that while she'd mentally allied herself with him, Hermione represented the wider Wizarding world and what Jane thought was wrong with it. And, like Hermione herself, she wasn't one to let that slip by unnoticed. Unfortunately, he didn't think it was a comparison Hermione would appreciate at the moment.

He watched as Hermione struggled with herself, fighting her natural desire to argue the point with her need for secrecy. It was a subtle struggle, waged only in her eyes, but he'd known her for a very long time and there were few things that got her blood up like defending the rules that for her defined the world.

"What's done is done," Hermione said, voice clipped. And then she snapped her hand out, wrapping them in a privacy spell strong enough that he could almost hear the hum of it as music. "You swore an _Oath_," she said shrilly, "to abide by the Statute and all the laws put in place by the Wizengamot. Not just the implied agreement that comes with living in Wizarding society, but an Oath, Harry."

"There's no one here to enforce that Oath, is there?" Harry said in his own defense. "And the magic didn't tie my tongue."

"It's not a Secret-Keeping kind of vow!" She clenched her hands into fists. "Harry, Oathbreakers always come to nasty ends in Wizarding tales. Magic exacts its own price!"

He felt his mouth set in stubborn lines. "Then I'll pay it. I want to go home, Hermione. Do you?" he challenged her. No matter how little he resembled the Harry that had been Ginny's husband, he couldn't simply sever that Vow without regret and there were so many things that he missed desperately, from the large to the small.

"Of course I do!" she snapped. "But you didn't just tell Jane, Harry, or Thor. You said this in front of _Loki_."

"You agreed to defend him. Merlin's balls, you agreed to free him!"

"It's not Loki I worry about," she hissed. "Or did you forget that lurking in his shadow is someone who might be capable not only of bridging the space between our worlds, but who might be a threat even to Wizards if he's capable of giving out an artifact like the Tessaract like it was no more than a party favor?"

Harry's anger abruptly evaporated. He had overlooked Thanos, had nearly forgotten that there was someone else who could pillage minds as easily as Hermione. But his conviction that he hadn't done wrong didn't waver. He'd seen his approach bear fruit already. Jane and Thor were more open, more trusting, and Loki was...well, Loki. "Then do whatever you need to do to keep Loki safe and keep Thanos from discovering we exist," he said. "I know you can."

His quiet confidence in her stole her own anger away and she simply frowned at him. "I still think it was a bad idea," she said.

"I know you do. But you probably ought to cancel the spell now," he said, indicated a perturbed Jane.

Hermione glanced over at the other woman and then back at him. "Even if you wanted to reveal things, why didn't you talk it over with me first?"

"Because you would have said no. And there opportunity was there," Harry admitted. And Hermione, when she said no, could be persuasive.

"I...see." She smiled, but there was something off about it. "I suppose we've just been making decisions together for so long that I'd almost forgotten we could make them on our own."

The hum of the spell abruptly ceased. "Well?" Jane demanded.

"We've agreed to disagree," Hermione said.

"Oh?" Loki said archly. "I didn't think it was in you to compromise. Unless you believe this compromise will gain you something."

"What a nasty observation to make," Hermione said.

"But true, nonetheless. And from me, you may take it as a compliment."

"Dare I accept a compliment of that kind?"

"You'll accept a compliment of any kind. Since you've favored me with such a scathing assessment of my character, I think it time to pay the favor back."

Hermione shifted to look in the direction of Loki's cell, though Harry could see that Loki himself didn't shift from his relaxed position, leaning against the wall. "I wait with bated breath," Hermione said sardonically.

"Oh, I doubt that. You must have been a desperately plain child. Was being precocious the only way people could be made to pay attention to you? And you became enamored of the praise and petting and came to believe what they told you, thinking yourself oh-so-clever and bright. And the cycle only continued, feeding your delusion, until Hermione Granger could do no wrong in her own eyes. How smug, how off putting you must have been. No one liked you, especially not your peers and certainly not your instructors. You must have been the kind who tattled the least offence, inflexible to the point of being brittle in your insistence that everyone follow the rules. Everyone...but not you. Hermione Granger embodied the rules, so she was above them, wasn't she?"

"So much better than the others, she knew best. And everyone who would naysay her were only fools, weren't they? But you couldn't dismiss them so easily. You were and are insatiable for praise and recognition, because that's the only way that Hermione Granger knows how to exist, through the praise or damnation of others. So you found yourself someone like Harry Potter and you insinuated yourself in his life. You made yourself necessary to him, didn't you? Because that was the only way you knew to be assured that you wouldn't be discarded when he found you irksome. What you call friendship is only a kind of symbiotic parasitism, an endless cycle where you need him to need you."

Harry was considering the distance between his cell and Loki's with the very serious thought of silencing him bodily. Because he'd told Loki little enough about school and what Hermione was to him, but he should have known that'd he'd been gleaning information all along from the both of them, until he could form it into this twisted narrative that had just enough truth to bring blood. He wanted to demand to know what kind of game Loki was playing at, when he'd recently been so conciliating, so easily offering Hermione his friendship in exchange for a favor.

But Hermione stopped him with a single word. And it wasn't even a word directed at him. "So?" Hermione asked. "You think I don't know my faults, Loki? That I don't torture myself with the thought that my friendships weren't founded on anything that resembled common interests or likeness of mind? But they were stronger for it in the end, because we did need each other. Not because we agreed on something, not because we understood each other perfectly, but because we limped along regardless and forgave each other our differences."

She took a deep, shaky breath and he could hear the faint echo of tears that she wouldn't shed. "And as for myself, my reliance on praise, my need for recognition-the only reason you can say those things with such confidence is that looking at me must be just like looking in a mirror for you. Our biggest difference is that you've made your purpose to subvert the rules while I cling to them."

"You've managed to land a blow, Loki. Are you satisfied now? You have the oddest approach to winning a friendship that I've ever witnessed."

"Vulnerability. Praise. Honesty. Those are your three greatest weaknesses, Hermione. You'd disbelieve praise and distrust vulnerability after my little...miscalculation earlier, but this is the honesty I can offer you. I can understand. Can even Harry say the same?"


	28. The Limitation of the Zeroth Law

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Twenty-Six-

The Limitations of the Zeroth Law

There was an implicit, irritating sense of 'we' threaded throughout Harry's tales of the world from whence he'd came. Perhaps he did it purposely, but Loki very much doubted it was so. There was too much of an unconscious assumption that he was part of a greater whole, the friendship between Hermione and Harry so all-consuming that they formed their own unending ouroboros of strength and vulnerability.

At first he'd feared there would be no crack into which he could insinuate himself, for they didn't _need _Loki. Not his cleverness, not his magic, not even his place as a prince of Asgard. But when he'd heard nothing after hearing the disappointed resignation in Hermione's voice after acknowledging that the wolf had slipped the trap, he'd known they weren't invulnerable.

Not the disappointment-that was quite what he would have felt, in a much less forgiving manner, if he'd been present the first time that Thor had decided it was wise to devalue the magic of Asgard by explaining it in terms of science as the mortals understood it. But the resignation, that was something different. It hadn't sounded, to his ear, like simple acknowledgement. It had held the echo of a friendship built on concessions to decisions that affected both of them made without consent or perhaps against express advice. And he very much understood the resentment that could be born of that.

Loki knew that, regardless of the cold ruthlessness that still startled though he'd come to expect it, Hermione, even more than Harry, self-identified as someone who lived, breathed, and spoke the law. She lived, secure and self-righteous, behind walls she herself had build, the stone the rules she regulated her life by, mortared by belief. Regardless of how he might charm her, if he couldn't breach those walls, Hermione would never _really _believe herself his equal. No matter his lifespan or power, she would believe herself above him because she thought that adhering to a nearly arbitrary framework of rules intended to make a populace biddable and docile made her good. She further believed that being good was superior, no matter that good and evil were invented ideas that had no place in nature.

So he needed to hurt her, sully her, make herself doubt in her own goodness-because then, she might condescend to meet him on _his _terms. Not that he couldn't play the tamed pet if he needed to. But only if she was valuable enough to justify the sacrifice of his pride, which he wasn't yet convinced of. It cost him little enough if he failed in his baiting as he used what was obvious about her to reconstruct a childhood that he couldn't truly relate to.

Not enough politics, not enough expectation, not enough prejudice against the way he chose to win a path to victory. Hermione was to magic what Sif was to physical battle, someone clearly more skilled than anyone else but denied the recognition she thought was her right. Which, if she had been more something else-in Sif's case male, likely something else in Hermione's-would have been no more than her due.

"Can even Harry say the same?"

It was a baseline question, something to gauge whether his assessment had been accurate. Though, judging by the murderous aura clinging about the dragon across the way, he supposed it was. There had been something that had sounded nearly like tears in Hermione's voice, but tears from women were to be distrusted. They could be ploy, certainly, but they could also spring from rage, embarrassment, or any number of things that weren't directly linked to emotional pain.

"Yes!" Was Harry's snarled reply, but Hermione's was far simpler, more plainspoken. Surprising, given the way she consistently used her choice of diction to her verbal sparring partner give at least part of their attention over to tracking what she was saying, rather than being able to focus on the content. Unfortunately for her, the antiquated English and convoluted sentences were how the Alltongue generally rendered the language.

"That question doesn't really deserve a response," Hermione said, with a simple dignity he hadn't thought her capable of, but perhaps the matter of her friendship with Harry left her barer of her usual defenses than usual. She might present a picture of physical simplicity in appearance, but her pride was a complicated beast indeed. "We've haven't even spent a week in each other's company. We might think along a similar vein, but while our methods might bear a superficial resemblance, what we're working to achieve is very different. Harry and I-our scars are from the same battles. "

He was left to his own thoughts after that. Jane tentatively tried to revive the convivial air, with Thor's hearty support, but Loki didn't think it was his imagination that saw the temperature drop enough to be detectible when Jane tried to coax more details from Harry.

So it was strictly non-magical topics, though Hermione thawed considerably when Thor forcibly redirected the conversation to a more neutral vein.

But it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes since Hermione's arrival that the guards returned.

"_In jus voco te_," Hermione said lightly.

"Indeed," Loki agreed wryly, standing languidly as the guards formed up in the hall. He saw several of the chains that had been used to bind him during his last little sentencing in front of his father, so he assumed that the three men in the group were going to be attending this trial in the guise of leashed dogs, though one of those on a dragon was like attempting to muzzle Fenrir with mortal steel. But he discovered that in this they were going to be impartial-though Jane could hardly have escaped the guards in any case, even she wore chains, with the dutiful two handlers accompanying like pageboys bearing a queen's train.

They made for an eye-catching parade for the servants and onlookers who crowded the halls. But it was a mercifully brief trip before they stood before the Allfather's golden throne. Not that they didn't have an audience there as well, but it was a more select group of warriors and the more noteworthy of the æsir. If he wasn't mistaken, he thought he'd caught sight of Hermod skulking about in the shadows, flickering from place to place as closer observers shifted.

But his father surprised him. "Clear the hall," Odin demanded. "This will not be a spectacle."

Murmurs of disappointment crowded the long hall, but very few disobeyed Odin and in minutes, only he and the guards that had collected them from the cells remained. They wore the full-faced helms of Odin's Ravenguard, their identity hidden from all but Odin himself, their armor steely black rather than Asgardian gold. The only warriors in Asgard who had looked more sinister, so the tales said, were Odin's Valkyrie, who rode to Midgard mounted not on horses but on the backs of wolves. But Loki was half-convinced those were nothing more than tales grown more outlandish in the thousand years since anyone had seen one of Odin's battlemaidens in the flesh.

"If you intended to do so, could you not have swept the old rushes from the floor before guests arrived?" he asked archly.

Odin simply frowned at him. "You know the charges laid upon you," he said flatly.

Thor stepped forward, chains jangling. "My cause was just-it was my right to seek vengeance for mother's death, though you could not be bothered to do so yourself!"

"It is somewhat unfortunate," a voice, familiar enough to still his heartbeat as it rang softly from behind them, "that you pursued vengeance for a crime not committed, but it would have been worth true death to see my sons no longer at odds. But it took the death of your mother to prevail upon your better selves . For shame." Frigga's voice, soft with that awful disappointment that made her ever so much more difficult to confront than his father.

And there was the inconvenient fact that he couldn't seem to make his lungs work as they ought. His heart was in rebellion as well, having stuttered to that painful stop, then as if to make apology for it pulsed with such ferocity it was almost like listening to a tide that had invaded his ears, making all other sounds small and distant. He tried to reach for a clever remark, but his mind was empty of anything approaching wit and he doubted that he could have forced his tongue to obey him in any case.

Devastation and betrayal warred inside him, but it was a surprise victor that took the field.

Joy.

His mother wasn't dead and for a long, suspended moment, that was all that mattered. He savored the purity of the emotion as it swept away his cynicism and his bitterness. In that cocoon of emotion, he could almost pretend he was a child again, the disappointment for some small, mostly harmless trick well-executed.

But, just as that illusion had been cruelly shattered, reality intruded and with it the anger seeped back in. Rage was his instant response, but then something odd occurred to him. His mock-death had been discovered almost instantly, but his mother had well and truly fooled the whole of Asgard. Loki couldn't help the laughter that made his shoulders shake with the force of it, chains jingling. At last, he simply gave in and threw his head back, hair tumbling freely down his shoulders. "I have been denying you are my mother, but _truly_...I cannot compare with your guile." He turned as far as his guards would let him. And there was Frigga, as regal and beautiful as she had always been, holding herself with the elegant poise that characterized her in all his memories.

"Mother," the single word escaped from Thor's lips, small and vulnerable. "But why? What is the meaning of this?"

"The Nine Realms were in danger of being returned to the primordial darkness and yet that was still not enough for my sons to halt their squabbling for long enough to save them. I only hoped to tip the scale toward our continued survival."

Frigga swept past them and came to stand at Odin's side, her hand pressing against his shoulder briefly before moving to one side of the dais.

Loki finally brought his laughter under control, even as Thor swallowed down whatever emotions he was experiencing. "I am...I am glad you are alive, mother, even if I cannot pretend to understand why you thought you had to resort to...this..."

Odin didn't give them much time to wallow in their emotions. "So now you understand, my sons, that I could accuse you of recklessly endangering us all by risking everything on such a foolhardy scheme."

Thor's head tilted forward, the angle masking much of his expression. Jane's lips were compressed into a thin line of displeasure and she was all but glaring defiance at Odin. Harry and Hermione both looked remarkably neutral, given how expressive both usually were. But there was a smoldering anger tamped down in Harry's eyes. Hermione was so opaque he gave up his study after a moment. As for himself, his emotions were in such turmoil that it became more prudent to ignore them in favor of listening well to the man who still called himself his father.

"But I have been persuaded to view your actions in a more favorable light given that you succeeded in preventing Malekith from making use of the Aether, even if it was _you _who placed it so conveniently within his reach to begin with, rather than assembling a proper force to deal with a threat of that caliber. Which _would _have been done, regardless of what your impatience declared. You would think, after centuries of battle, when it is wise to pursue an enemy and when retreat is simply another kind of tactic."

Thor looked up at that. "Jane might have died, had we waited!"

Loki doubted that would have been an extraordinary loss from Odin's point of view, especially when weighted against the Nine Realms. The Allfather had once lectured him on how humans were very much like them, to which he'd made an offhand comment that it was true, give or take five thousand years, but while there were myriad stories of Odin gallivanting about Midgard, the man who had raised him had never shown any particular favoritism for the Realm. And what was pleasant in theory, such as mortals being the short-lived equal of the æsir, was quite another thing entirely when your golden son dragged one home and declared he intended to keep it.

Odin's brows arched. "Are you so certain?" he asked.

"Of course!" Thor protested. "She collapsed during our escape."

"But she recovered after that, didn't she?" Odin pointed out."The Aether _protects_ its host, Thor. It is more evolved than any virus, capable of sustaining itself indefinitely within any body, even a mortal one. But it is also a source of massive energy from a foreign dimension, accustomed to residing Dark Elves. There will of course be a period of symptomatic infestation in which it familiarizes itself with its new host's body."

"So it was...tuning itself to a _homo sapiens _energy wavelength?" Jane asked skeptically. But her brows were furrowed thoughtfully. "But if you look at it from the perspective of virus theory, it _would _be inconvenient for the Aether to meaninglessly expend energy switching hosts. It's not as if its mobile on its own, after all. And its sentience...it wasn't malevolent towards _me_, at least directly."

Odin looked on Jane with what was almost approval. "But you are not here for a scolding. I sit upon this throne, not as your father, Thor, Loki, but as your king. And I have indulged you quite enough. Henceforth, you are both stripped of your titles and your lands, thralls, and possessions will be held in abeyance until such a time as you have redeemed yourself in the eyes of the throne. And as mere warriors in service to the king, you will have no right to protest the quest I will hand down to you, nor will you refuse to swear the oaths I demand of you, unless you choose dishonored exile to Midgard. And should you make that choice," Odin said softly, "then I fear that our parting would be permanent."

Loki shifted, watching Thor in his peripheral vision. Loki would hardly surrender his powers and make himself more vulnerable than he was; he would agree to Odin's quest and if it was not too terribly tedious or horrific, he would seriously contemplate completing it without diligently exploiting any opening left to him by how Odin chose to word their oaths.

Thor, however, seemed to seriously contemplate exile.

"Don't," Jane said, very sternly. "Don't you dare even think about it. I will _not _be responsible for losing you all this." She jerked her head to indicate the room they were standing in, which Loki took to mean the throne and Asgard both. "You were only mortal for days, Thor. And even those days were exceptional. Now that I've seen you like this, here...you'd be miserable. And don't try to convince yourself otherwise," she said when Thor would have protested. "I return your feelings, Thor. So much so that I worry, all the time, that maybe they're unequal. But feelings change in changing circumstances," she pointed out practically.

"If you were to ask me to give up all my experiments and research and come live here as whatever passes for an Asgardian version of a housewife, I'd try to change your mind, and if that failed, I'd tell you none too gently that it doesn't work like that. Without all _this_...you're not really you, are you? So, just, no." She turned to stare challengingly at Odin. For a moment, she seemed caught between belligerence and an attempt to make use of good manners. "I would...like to hear what my own punishment is," Jane said at last.

"I had not intended to punish you," Odin said. "I am not much in the habit of punishing victims."

Jane straightened. "If you're going to punish them for saving me and saving the world in the process, I'm not going to be written off as the damsel in distress. Regardless of whether or not I intended to do it, it _was _my fault that the Aether became an issue in the first place. And if you choose to still send me back to Midgard," she said, voice lower but no less certain, "I'll have to assume that it's because you think humans have the same level of culpability as barnyard animals."

A long, tense moment ensued as Jane and Odin maintained their battle of wills.

It was Frigga who intervened. "I will loan her my falcon-cloak and we'll dust off a few magical treasures and she can accompany them. It will do no harm. It will perhaps even do some good. But can you be absent from Midgard so long? Even if the menfolk do not, I understand the concept of employment."

"My research is conducted independently. And my funding is through S.H.I.E.L.D. Darcy-my intern, should be able to explain most of what happened. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s more...flexible about people not making it in to work because of alien abduction than most employers."

Frigga nodded and cast Odin a meaningful, sidelong glance. Odin did not actually sigh, but there was certainly something in his manner that suggested the action.

"And now we come to the last," Odin said. "I have spoken with Hermione of the Grange about what I wish of my sons and whether you would be included. She indicated to me that it was decision she could not make alone, for it would also effect you."

And while she'd been doing so, her companion had been busily divulging secrets that she had obviously wished kept secret. He really had to applaud Hermione's continued impassive expression. There wasn't even a single glance toward Harry to indicate malcontent.

But the glance was unnecessary, judging by the way Harry's jaw clenched."I-" A muscle worked beneath his skin, "Merlin, Hermione," Loki heard him mutter. "I trust Hermione," he said more loudly. "I'll stand by whatever decision she makes."

Odin directed his gaze back at the witch. Who finally glanced over at Harry, her severe expression softening. "Quests against impossible odds with near-certain death as the reward are somewhat habitual, at this point, for us," she said, which prompted a dawning grin from Harry. "So, yes."

"Though," Harry said dryly, "I reserve the right change my opinion on that if it takes seven years. Or if there is a prophecy that makes mention of any of us in relation to whatever we're doing. Just so we're clear."

A/N: To address a guest reviewer's concerns about the Kiss, which she or he found jarring when presented against the background of Harry and Hermione being 'good' characters-I don't know that you are supposed to sympathize with them by way of agreement, but judicial murder is more or less Hermione and Harry's job description. Within a strict interpretation of Wizarding law, they are abiding by the laws of their world by doing so and wouldn't enter into any morally grey space. By my interpretation, the Kiss and what would be considered cruel and unusual punishment by any American court is fundamental to canon Wizarding justice. But it's a different set of cultural norms, nothing more, nothing less, just as Asgard apparently executes prisoners by way of beheading, unless Loki is being even more dramatic than usual when he tells Odin that if he is for the axe to go ahead and swing it.

I've seen fics where Wizards are written as little more than Muggles who happen to have magic, but I like the idea that they have a full, separate, alien culture that has its own rules, expectations, and moral standards. Evidence in canon suggests that this is so, but some of the rougher elements are glossed over, such as this one, despite the fact that Harry sees memories of Wizengamot trails where prisoners are chained to their chairs before being interrogated and Azkaban seems to have little to no standards for prisoner care except that they be kept in prison, if Sirius is anything to go by or in the movie!verse post-Azkaban Lucius. The Hit Wizard's job description is actually based on the practice of outlawry in early England. In this case, outlaw means a man who has literally been put outside the protection of the law.

There's something very medieval about many features of canon Wizarding society, which is quite interesting. Even the acceptance of transfiguration seems to have something of an older morality system to it-there is no question of animal rights brought up in canon about whether it hurts an animal to be transfigured into a water goblet, nor is there any indication that an animal created from an inanimate object would protest at being returned to it. It's a different argument entirely whether or not animals have souls, but it would appear some sort of animating principle is at work, because the transfigured teacups act like mice, which would imply that there is now some sort of mind at work that doesn't think it's a teacup.


	29. Collapse of the Cosmological Constant

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Twenty-Eight-

The Collapse of the Cosmological Constant

Hermione breathed deep the stinging, more than slightly polluted air that filled Midgard's New York City and felt at ease. Unlike her other adventures, this one had a less pressing time schedule. Balder had been dead for hundreds of years and nothing was likely to change that or make him more difficult or easier to retrieve no matter how long they delayed. So there was to be no haring off ill-prepared. Odin had granted them three days on Midgard to arrange for their absence, whether that absence was permanent or otherwise.

She was putting off the painful process of deciding to withdraw completely from her university or simply make some other arrangement concerning her classes this semester by coming here. Hermione doubted Tony Stark was the kind to offer advice when someone was in need, but he made it very difficult to concentrate on her own issues. He was his own personal gravitation field and his universe revolved quite blatantly around Tony Stark. What made it disgusting was that he somehow managed to make it charming rather than off-putting, though she supposed it helped that he was handsome and richer than Afagddu, who'd ruled the goblins before the great wars that had left Wizards the contested but triumphant rulers of magic.

She was allowed entry into Stark Tower without even a single demand for identification. The reason why became obvious as the last set of doors closed behind her. "I have alerted Mr. Stark of you presence, Ms. Granger. He asks that you join him in the lab. If you will proceed to the elevator, I will escort you there," JARVIS said.

"Of course. Thank you," Hermione returned politely, doing as requested. The elevator took her above the regular floors, to the levels she'd heard Ms. Potts refer to as 'Tony's toybox.' It was certainly true it resembled some sort of mad child's dream, less laboratory and more dreamscape, peopled by robots with distinct personality which kept him company as he transformed the laws of science into flexible guidelines.

She'd only been there three times, but it wasn't the sort of place one ever forgot.

When the doors opened, she found Tony busily doing...something, ignoring the robotic arm that was prodding him the arm with an extended plate of what appeared to be muffins. Finally he turned to glare at it. "Poke me with the again and you'll find yourself repurposed to sort mail." With a sad kind of whirring that made the scene even more surreal, the robot relented and sat the plate on a nearby surface with a sulky click.

"Of course," Tony said, "You're welcome to the muffins if you'd like them, Hermione. Some sort of wholegrain and seed business that Pepper left, so they probably won't kill you."

Hermione smiled at his offer. "No, thank you. I've already had breakfast."

"So you say now," Tony retorted, "but let's see if that's the story you tell when the doughnuts get here. So, what brings you to my playground? Or do you want me to guess? That would be fun too."

She cleared her throat. "I don't know how closely you follow my grades..."

Tony snorted. "I was prepared to buy your degree, but all I hear from your dean is 'Hermione this' and 'Hermione that' and 'we'd like to award Hermione this scholarship because she has this irritating eidetic memory that gives her an unfair advantage over all our other hardworking students who actually have to work at it-also could you mention to her she takes up an unfair amount of our professors office hours considering she probably needs the least help of any student we've ever had.' Things like that."

Hermione blinked. "He didn't really say that."

"Well, no, not directly. Do you actually monopolize your professors' office hours?"

"That's what office hours are for, aren't they. You hardly see other students making use of them unless there's a paper due. And they're still undergraduate courses yet, so that's actually somewhat disappointingly rare."

Tony gave her a blank look. "You're 'disappointed'," he made air quotes with his fingers, "there weren't more papers?"

"Yes. Why not? Classes are too short to have any really in-depth analysis of anything, so papers are the perfect way to show your professors you have a real grasp of the material."

"Right," Tony drawled. "Well, that' s the kind of attitude I'll one day pay you for, so keep that up." He clapped his hands, declaring that subject closed and the lights in the room darkened, so that the holograms his machines projected were more brightly visible in the air. Schematics of some kind, she thought, though for what she couldn't determine. "Okay, grades. I doubt you're here to report on them-you'd likely send an actual report if it came to that, so something bad is about to happen to them. Does this have something to do with Thor's mysterious reappearance this morning?"

He rolled his eyes at her startled glance. He pointed to himself. "Genius. But that's irrelevant. In this case I'm just not stupid. Thor reappears and snatches Jane. Mysterious and coincidental absence from your classes. Equally coincidental reappearance when Thor reappears. If you tell me you _haven't _been slumming in Asgard, I'm going to be disappointed. What's the booze like?"

"I wasn't there to drink, but they make a very fine hard cider from pears."

Tony hummed thoughtfully. "What, you didn't enjoy the mead? And here I was looking forward to drinking stories that involved at least a goat."

Hermione frowned at him and Tony raised his hand. "Hey-remember, Tony rules apply in this room. You get to pretend to have a sense of humor."

"In that case, no goats, but there was these handsome, clever ravens..."

Tony snorted. "You need to work on your sordid storytelling. Okay, so no drinking contests with the gods. So what did you do while you were there? And why do you have to go back?"

Hermione prevaricated. "Well, Odin thought we could be useful in a certain matter..."

"Useful for you debating skills or useful because you're magic-wielding aliens from another dimension?"

"Funny, Tony," Hermione said, crossing her arms.

"What's so funny about that? I was being serious. I have to say, Harry takes a little getting used to, but you might be able to make a case for fantasy pin-up girl, so long as you're fine with appealing to the severe librarian crowd. You're not really well-endowed enough to-"

Hermione held up a hand, forestalling that conversation. "I think I've missed something."

"Missed? No. I've just been spying on you. And before you tell me it's illegal, I'll have you know that there isn't anything to protect the rights of actual aliens in the states of New York or Connecticut."

"Please tell me that you didn't actually ask someone that."

Tony tilted his head from one side to the other as if he was literally juggling a thought. "No. But I'll make you half a million dollar wager that there aren't any actual laws that protect real aliens. So, why don't you make yourself comfortable, take of that whatever it is kind of magic that you're wearing, so I can get a look up close? Please?"

Hermione sighed, contemplated her options swiftly, then decided if Harry had felt secure in revealing himself to extremely questionable allies, she could do the same for Tony. But she would do it properly, because it wasn't only anger that had made her snap at Harry so. Oaths were very serious things in the Wizarding world, with sometimes unpredictable consequences once broken. Secret-Keeping, Wand-Oaths, Vows of all kinds, none were simple words, simple promises. Her Marriage Vow was actually the mildest oath she was party too, as she and Ron had chosen one of mutual toleration. Not that adultery was to be expected or personally tolerated from either of them, but some of the old, very traditional Vows had the capacity to cause excruciating pain from something as benign-in the modern world at least-as embracing another man.

As she had no desire to deal with her Marriage Vow interfering with her ability to spontaneously hug Harry, Hermione had patiently explained to many of her new in-laws how the lesser Vow was a sign of the trust between them rather than any lack of commitment to the marriage. And if Ron had experienced a lapse in judgment, she really preferred that it be her choice to punish him for it or not, rather than relying on a Vow.

She extended her hand to Tony, whose brows arched upward.

"What, we're going to shake on it?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and waggled her fingers meaningfully. With a put-upon sigh, he slipped his hand into hers. She gripped his hand firmly and met his eyes, intruding upon his mind with a mental whisper. His mind was...odd, somehow. Legilimancy on Muggles wasn't illegal, so she'd occasionally used the technique when details about their targets showed evidence of memory tampering. So she knew the 'feel' of a Muggle mind, the vulnerability of it. Tony's mind was-the adjective that came to mind was slippery, like she was staring into a dazzling, shifting kaleidoscope by entering. There were no barriers, not like a Wizard would have, but there was still something not quite _right _about it.

But she shook off the eerie sensation, because Tony's expression was growing more skeptical the longer she delayed. "What?" he asked, "do I need to kneel or something? Because I'm getting this whole _vibe..._"

"You don't have to-" Hermione began irritably, but Tony was already shifting, until he was glancing up at her with mock-innocence, one hand still held in hers.

"This floor is harder than I remembered," he commented offhandedly and his mind agreed with him by way of presenting a lurid interlude with Pepper Potts Hermione very much did not need to be party to.

She brought her other hand forward, so that his single hand was clasped between both of hers. "Anthony Edward Stark, I bind thee to the keeping of my secrets. Thy tongue shall not betray me, neither shall the work of thine hands, nor the products of thy mind. Will you take this vow freely?"

"I don't suppose I could have this in writing so I can forward this to my legal department before I agree? No? Just out of curiosity, what happens if I break this little pact?"

"Your brains begin to leak out your ears," Hermione said dryly.

"Really?" Tony asked, looking more enthusiastic than that threat had a right to produce.

"No," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "All the really nasty consequences for breaking vows of this kind are saved for the ones forced upon someone. If you agree, you'll just find it difficult to accidently mention something you're not supposed to. And if you try to do it on purpose, it'll be like having a severe speech impediment."

"In that case, why didn't you just ask me not to tell anyone?"

"In general, because I'd be breaking an Oath of my own. In specific, you, Tony Stark, have a love affair with shock value that makes you really untrustworthy when it comes to things like this."

"Hey, I resent that. I've kept quiet until now." Hermione stared down at him. "But I see you point. Alright, I agree to your terms and conditions user agreement."

Magic accepted his light-hearted agreement and Hermione felt the Vow take. She released Tony's hand. "You can get up now," she said in a voice approaching exasperation. "Not that you needed to in the first place."

"It felt more dramatic," Tony protested as he stood. "Alright, you've got my vows, now I get the payoff. Off with it."

"I hope that not the speech you have planned for your wedding night," Hermione retorted as she complied, sloughing her glamour. "How _did _you managed to spy on us anyway."

"I want a full-body scan," Tony ordered the room, leaning forward to tap at her gauntlets. "You could have crushed my hand with these. What kind of metal is this? And, please," he said. "Magic is just an energy source that we haven't discovered how to use yet. In my humble opinion."

"You don't have humble opinions. And, in this case, wrong, although you and Jane Foster would probably have a very interesting conversation attempting to convince yourselves of that."

"Uh-huh. Hold that thought for a second. Has anyone seen my sclerometer?" A robot rushed to press the instrument into his extended hand. "So, alien life form. You as old as Thor?"

"No. But I am in my thirties."

"Average life expectancy?"

"Back in the '90s it was a little over 137 years, though that can vary. The oldest natural age reached by a Wizard-that's what we call ourselves-was 755."

"And the oldest unnatural age?" Tony queried as he tried to do something with the odd-looking tool. Scratch the metal of her gauntlet, she suspected. "What did you say these were made of?"

"I didn't, but they're steel."

"I hate to tell you this, sunshine, but whoever sold these to you lied, because we're fast approaching diamond-level hardness."

"Magical steel."

"Which probably shares very few properties with real steel. I am curious though. How in the world do you long-lived types keep yourselves from just overrunning your planet? I mean, if Thor's a thousand years old, the number of his potential offspring is, well, pretty much astronomical. We only live, what, seventy, eighty years and we managed to make a population chart that looks like your learning curve in the past two or three generations."

"I don't know about Asgard, but magic regulates our population size."

"Like, your government has the equivalent of the one-child policy in place and they have a better way of making it happen? Because we could market that."

"No, I mean that we've _always _been a small population and the figure has stayed fairly constant throughout our history. Most families have very few children, because the magic seems to sense when the population drops and it needs to replenish itself. So, we don't have generations in quite the same way that Mu-nonmagical humans do. When the population drops abruptly, more children are born, but when the population is stable, most Witches find that they can't reproduce. And if they try to force the issue, the rate of incidence of miscarriages and stillbirths rises so sharply it's almost a guarantee that the child will die before they reach the age of three. And if they do live, they're Squibs-not capable of using magic."

"On our planet, we're the minority. Nonmagical humans outnumber us, but they're also necessary for the survival of Wizardkind, whether all of us think so or not. Eventually, with such a small pool of choices, everyone would be related to the point where not even magic might prevent some nasty birth defects. So we're capable of, ah, I guess you might call it spontaneous generation? Wizards can be born from nonmagical humans."

"Interesting. Not quite as interesting as this metal. Just imagine the suit I could make with this," he said to the room at large.

"I'm certain it would be spectacular, sir," JARVIS replied. "Although you ought to consider a different design scheme."

Perusal of her gauntlets finished, she found Tony abruptly closer than was really comfortable to her face. "Is that glass?" he asked.

"Shrapnel from a mirror," she explained.

"Last I looked, shrapnel doesn't melt glass so that it can look like you're wearing heavy mascara."

"Magical shrapnel propelled from something made to forge things to other things can."

"Was it a magic mirror too?" Tony teased.

"Yes," Hermione remarked, "it was."

"Okay. Make a note, JARVIS. We're going to assume everything from here on out is 'magic'."

"Noted, sir," came the reply.

"So, now that I've been sworn in to your little secret society, can I hear what happened on Asgard? And then we'll move back to me quizzing you and you answering 'magic' with that deadpan look on your face."

So Hermione explained briefly about the Aether and their subsequent task to retrieve Balther.

"And you don't just have a spell for that?"

"Necromancy is a Dark Art and no one's ever been successful in fully resurrecting someone. Bodies, yes, souls, yes, but never together, or at least not perfectly."

"So you could totally raise a zombie horde?"

"We call them Inferi, but technically, yes. But it's a _Dark _Art."

"And you're a white witch? Do no harm and all that?"

Hermione shuddered. "Please don't use Wiccan terms. I respect other's lifestyles and religions, I really do, but magic as I know it has nothing to do with being in balance with nature, goddesses or gods, and I would be very much in trouble if any harm I did rebounded on me threefold. And, well, while most of them seem sane enough, there's certainly a fringe element to it, isn't there? On reflection, I would be very much dead if their threefold rule held true. Not all Dark Arts are evil, but they are illegal, which means that I'd need a very compelling reason to use them. And I can't think of a single situation that would call for a zombie horde."

"True. Zombies are inefficient."

Hermione scowled at him.

She'd intended to spend only the morning with Tony, but it was very late when she successfully escaped his clutches, feeling faintly like a runaway laboratory experiment. Though during the course of the afternoon her school issue had been taken care of, Tony verbally manhandling some poor soul from the administration building.

But once she left Stark Tower, she found herself at loose ends. She had a further two days she could spent on Midgard, but she'd never really been good at building personal relationships, though her professional relationships were exemplary.

With the exception of Tony, she didn't have anyone on this Earth that she could casually call upon. It was a startling, empty realization, how trapped she'd been by the past. She'd wanted to return home, which was only understandable, but it had been years and yet it was as if she'd lived in an emotional stasis, spending every day promising herself that this day on this Earth would be her last.

Would she have wanted Ron to do the same? Did she want him to have sacrificed everything that was unessential to the pursuit of an answer, the sterile, miserable little apartment that she and Harry had shared?

The answer to that was a very firm _no. _

She felt something shift inside her, something that had been tightly bound in chains and locked away. Hermione was exhausted. By the constant, fruitless searching, by the constant wariness, by the sensation of being trapped.

An odd coincidence of timing occurred to her as she mulled over the date and by extension how long they'd been on this Earth. She'd noted it when they'd finally managed to enter Muggle society without alarming anyone, but the calendars of the two Earths weren't in precise agreement with each other, unless the journey between worlds had been much longer than even her pain-wracked brain could acknowledge. Tonight, even without the recovery of their bodies, they would be dead to the Wizarding world.

And that explained, better than anything else, why Harry had simply said he wouldn't be staying at the apartment before Disapparating abruptly.

_If you could choose where to die, where would you go? _Hermione asked herself. Because, after this night, there would be no more excuses. Not for her. Harry had explained why he'd made the decision he had, how he thought that the Asgardians were their surest path back. And perhaps they were. Hermione simply couldn't forget, after all.

But there had to come a time when she really accepted that the probability that they could return was so slight as to be nonexistent. And what would happen if in ten years they discovered that path? Would it be fair to their partners to intrude upon their lives, when they'd accepted their deaths and moved on? What if they'd remarried? Had children?

There was a motto, in the Hit Wizards, to warn against that continual worrying that could wear down a soul.

"We must do what we can, before we must, while we're able," Hermione murmured. "So that we can leave regret behind."

Hermione Granger as she had been, Hit Wizard, Beings Rights advocate, wife of Ronald Weasley, would die tonight. The question would become who would rise in her place, but for now, she would seek the desert where she'd begun life here, bringing her existence full circle.

Casually walking into an abandoned alley, Hermione felt the compression of self that was Dissaparation and for a moment imagined it continued indefinitely, until her consciousness was compressed into a single point that might blaze up bright as a star before disappearing entirely.

But she was only faintly sad, not suicidal. As she gazed across the empty sands, she thought quietly that she had expected this to be a more dramatic moment, the emotions involved more intense. But it was like putting away a beloved blanket or stuffed animal from childhood. It wasn't unexpected. It was something that, subconsciously, she had been preparing for for a long time.

She wasn't like Harry-her wedding band had disappeared sometime during her forging. There was nothing on her person she could discard as a material gesture of the death of her old self. But, for once, she would do something reckless. Her glamour had fallen with her Apparation, so she was as she truly was on the sand. But her clothing was Muggle. She retrieved her purse, pulling things from it until magical artifacts lay tumbled on the sand. Not the unique, powerful things that Smelt had collected, but enchanted items meant to entertain and amuse. Harry and Ron both had accused her of traveling with the contents of a second house, but it had only meant to her that she was never unprepared.

And now it only meant she'd carried with her a tiny slice of the Wizarding world.

She changed out of her clothes into proper robes, not the battle-robes of a Hit Wizard, but the full-sleeved and flowing robes that had characterized Wizarding society. This set was a deep, velvety black, which made it appropriate garb for a funeral, but it was also so elegantly hand-embroidered in thread of gold, tiny jewels worked inconspicuously along the collar and hem, that it was really only suitable for grand state occasions.

One of the artifacts in the sand was a small music box, it's lid well-worn. Hermione opened the lid and grey-blue smoke seeped out until a large mock-phoenix blinked at her sleepily. There was no magic in its song, but the sweet, lingering notes that began to fill the air had magic enough of their own. Her heart felt lighter as she sorted the part of her collection that she'd unearthed, tucking away most of the ones that would be exhausted after a single use. Even for her own funeral, she wouldn't waste them so recklessly.

But she did toss into the air a handful of WWW's Moonlight Conflagration fireworks, which were guaranteed to blaze bright as burning magnesium throughout the night as they intertwine, multiply, replicate, rejoin in an endless abstract of beauty that it so short-lived that they were a smaller kind of heartbreak.

Hermione, taken by a sudden attack of practicality, marked off a wide stretch of her desert with the strongest warding spells she's capable of before returning to her pack.

She was young, but not a fool. Hermione had considered what sort of things she might like at her funeral and though most of them were well beyond her reach, she could still use magic to conduct a funeral on a grand scale. In her mind, she'd thought it would be a somewhat more solemn affair, simpler, but tonight she felt more like celebrating the life she'd lived.

Brandishing her wand, she channeled the power of the Elder Wand recklessly, the sand at her feet exploding upward as she directed. And when she was satisfied, she transfigured her house of sand to a mausoleum of glass, clear and perfect enough that the glimmer of the stars was only enhanced as they were reflected and refracted on the delicate angles.

The platform for her body was in the center of the room, proud and imposing. A plain cloak tossed over it was changed into an embroidered brocade splendid enough to suit an empress, spilling down across a floor that became marble mosaics as she walked toward where she would spend the night.

Easing herself onto her place, Hermione laid back, watching the fireworks as they wheeled through the sky, the stars, and invisible to all but her, the memories that she would always treasure, but that she would no longer be shackled by.

And, sometime before the dawn, she felt her Marriage Vow wink and die out, like a shooting star.

Hermione Granger was dead. But she was also free.


	30. The Collapse of the Last Stable Orbit

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Twenty-Nine-

The Collapse of the Last Stable Orbit

Harry had intended to dutifully visit all the friends and acquaintances they'd collected since coming to this place. They were few enough it was possible, though only through Apparation, since they were so scattered. He spent his morning volunteering with Frank White, the pastor who'd done so much for them in those first terrible months. But as afternoon approached, he had to relent and, after bidding the old man goodbye without any indication it was the last time he would say it, he sought solitude.

The safest place would have been Antarctica, but he wasn't in the mood for endless sterile snowscapes and the fragile vulnerability of the massive iceforms against dragon fire. And he did not pretend to himself that he could control his temper. Already there was a simmering rage that had been building since he'd realized what today was and what it represented.

Worse yet, it was undirected, because there was no one alive and present on this world that he could blame, so he was left only with the desire to lash out, to cause harm and pain that would be the equal of what he felt.

He was angry at himself, for not having found a solution in time, more furious yet at Hermione, because she taught him to trust her, her judgment, her abilities, and she'd failed him. Them. His mind knew that it wasn't any fault of hers, but his heart was a stranger to logic. Hermione was also inextricably connected to The Dragon, who at this moment Harry resented with the same intensity that he'd once reserved for toads like Umbridge and Fudge. The Dragon wasn't at all concerned by the approaching loss of his Marriage Vow, for the severing of yet another of the threads that bound him to the Wizarding world and to his past.

When he'd first realized The Dragon considered Hermione's friendship a kind of jewel in his hoard, he had thought that it would extend the same kind of feeling toward all his other relationship. But his friendship with Ron was nothing more than it had ever been and The Dragon regarded his Marriage Vow with a kind of bemusement. No matter their cunning nor their strength, dragons were in the end beasts, and it was the present that concerned it. There'd been two female dragons guarding Smelt's little bolt-hole with the male he'd been fused with, but what the male considered a mate-bond was a dim, pale thing compared to the hoard-bond.

Hungarian Horntails were solitary beasts, their immense size and fiercely territorial nature preventing them from forming into mating pairs for the duration of their life, though given the constancy of their territorial sprawl, the same pair might breed for season after season until one of them was ousted by a newcomer. Female Horntails were protective of their eggs and hatchlings to the point that they would choose their well-being over that of the hoard, but male Horntails, who had no part in the raising of the young, focused all the intensity of their emotion on their hoard. It was these habits that made dragon management possible, but Harry didn't give a damn about the habits of magical beasts, he simply wanted the cursed creature to give him a moment's peace without interfering in his remembrance of Ginny.

Rather than Apparating, he blindly took to the sky, still in his between-form. Flight had always been special to him, an escape from life when true escape was impossible. When he'd been able to put away everything pressing and terrible and simply focus on the elusive golden Snitch rather than the impossible things people were asking from him. Now Ginny was that tiny, adrenaline-inducing glint of sunlight on precious metal, always caught somewhere on the horizon, just beyond his reaching fingertips.

Memories flashed alongside him like his flight was through the waters of a Pensieve rather than open sky, but they only inspired him to ever faster flight until the muscles in his back burned pleasantly with the strain. It was growing dark as he finally Apparated somewhere less populated and he gave in the demands of The Dragon, shifting into what was his truest physical form, all scales and claws and nightmare wings.

A field of cattle lowed in unease as he swept over their field and something bestial triggered in his brain, his sorrow transforming into rage. His claws sunk deep into the flesh of the first cow and its spine gave as he jerked it upward, so it was little more than a large lump of flesh that twisted through the air to land with a deadened thump on the grass. The other cattle scattered, but Harry wasn't distracted by the dying cow as a real dragon might have been. He wasn't hungry for anything but destruction, so he pursued them, one enormous clawed hand descending on the back of one of the prey-creatures, his weight pressing down so that it collapsed to its knees, his teeth closing around its skull as he tore off its head, letting it fall from his jaws as The Dragon came alive at the taste of fresh blood.

It was with ever greater ferocity that Harry sprung away after the rest of the cattle, losing himself in the pleasure of rending flesh and bone and the warm, enlivening taste of blood on his tongue, which melded his mind more closely to the entity he'd always identified as separate and apart. Their fear could be tasted, smelt, reveled in; their dumb panic and pointless struggle providing a base kind of enjoyment.

When he had finished, nothing moved in the field except the tall grass, which was stained deep brown-black under moonlight by blood, the carcasses little more than hillocks of darkness if viewed through human eyes. But his eyes weren't human. He could see very clearly what he had done, what kind of carnage he'd wrecked.

He had been striding through the grass as a dragon, smug over the result of his hunt, but in moments he was a man on hands and knees in the grass, violently vomiting up blood interspersed with undigested chucks of flesh from the cattle. Harry was ill until his stomach muscles cramped with the force of his dry heaves, but still he felt the anger mingled with confusion. Had he not done well? Was it not his right as strongest and fiercest to do as he pleased?

He tried separating his mind from The Dragon's, but they were too intermixed, The Dragon too awake and alert from the thrill of the hunt.

Harry didn't want to be this _thing_, this monster, not this night. Tonight he wanted only to be Harry and Harry alone.

Reaching into his back pocket with blood-stained fingers, he retrieved his moleskin wallet. From it he retrieved golden goblets, plates, and unmarked coin enough to recompense the thousands of dollars worth of cattle he'd left butchered in the field.

He set a spell on the small collection, so that whomever owned the cattle would be sure to find it and it would otherwise remain hidden. Harry grimly contemplated what explanation they would give for the dead cattle. Bears? Wolves? He had the faintest idea he was in Iceland. In his world, the fairy population there was so large as to have been declared a public menace and they'd become the foremost exporters of potions ingredients made use of the irritating creatures. Perhaps they would blame it on the fairies.

Sitting there, his clothes liberally soaked with the lifeblood of cattle, more beast than man still, kneeling before a pile of gold meant to pay the price of his anger, he felt the flaring of his Wedding Vow before it snapped like steel subjected to too much tension.

He shrieked his anger and despair and startled birds from their roosts and in the far distance a dog who'd been barking abruptly went silent.

Barely taking the time to thrust the wallet back in his pocket, Harry launched himself upward, a dragon again before his feet cleared the grass. He knew of only one way to content and silence the dragon, but she was a continent away and had her own grief to contend with. But Harry found he didn't much care.

He didn't stop to consider whether or not a dragon could Apparate, he simply used the connection as his focal point and rifled himself through the sky, emerging above a far different landscape, this one lit by artificial lights that were gamboling playfully beneath him. And below them again, he saw that Hermione had built herself a little glass room, but even as his mind registered the detail, he was hurtling downward.

The scales of his belly impacted the glass, shattering it, his claws shifting and cracking marble tile and upsetting a music box, which snapped shut, its song cut short. Hermione had been laying in a pose not unlike what one saw on old tombs, hands crossed over her chest, clutching her wand easily. Her expression had been relaxed, wistful, but not at all sad. And that was infuriating.

Her eyes were wide, but he snatched her wand from her in a rough movement and tossed it into the sand, his between-form's clawed fingers smacking down on either side of her head. His knees were pinning the fabric of her robes, so she was very clearly trapped. Fear and panic joined surprise in her expression, and her voice was higher pitched than usual when she said, "Harry-"

Harry silenced her with an easy act of magic. Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, but then he felt her song shift, build. With one hand, he forced her to meet his eyes. For a moment, he doubted she would understand in her blind fear what he needed her to do, but then he felt her familiar presence intrude on his consciousness. Even here he wasn't really capable of words anymore, the deterioration had become so pronounced, but he conveyed very clearly in images, _If you struggle I will hurt you. _

He was answered in flashes of memory, of Bellatrix and torture and hopelessness.

Understanding what she needed, willing to make the compromise, in a single movement made easy only by the dragon's strength and reflexes, he shifted them so that he lay beneath Hermione. When he'd settled her on his chest, he forced her to again meet his eyes. When she intruded again with her Legilimancy, he demanded what he required from her. Not her well-intentioned meddling, not her sympathy, but her silence, as if she were truly an inanimate treasure hoard.

There was a marked pause, but then came Hermione's acceptance and her intent to sleep, since he'd stolen her view of the stars, interrupted her funeral, and needed the illusion of privacy. Tentatively, then with more confidence, Hermione made herself comfortable, all but sprawling on top of him, one gauntleted hand tucked behind his neck, tangling in his hair. At other times he was curious how much information Hermione could glean from brief foray, but now he was only glad he didn't need to bother to explain the scale-to-magic touch that made The Dragon hum with pleasure. For the first time, Harry was made to appreciate the concept of 'nest,' which for The Dragon was something like home. And when the beast fell asleep, content to dream dragonish dreams and Hermione's breathing evened out, Harry was left more alone in his thoughts than he had been for years.

And they were pleasant ones, but edged with pain, for it was as if it were Ginny who had died, rather than he. Innumerable meals prepared with laughter and good humor as they tried to follow Mrs. Weasley's painstaking instructions, the shared joy of Quidditch games and the wonder of flight, their playful and ongoing debate about what to name their children. Red hair spread across pale sheets, unabashed and eager intimacy, the hope of living up to the Harry Potter she still managed to believe in after all these years.

He wanted to believe that, if he couldn't return to those days, he could at least start anew with Ginny. She had accepted being left behind during the war, his angst-ridden surliness early in their relationship, his continued absences as he pursued the unpredictable life of first Auror then Hit Wizards. She'd refuted or ignored the rumors and attention, not all of it flattering, that dogged him because of who he was. He couldn't bring himself to believe that even The Dragon would be able to destroy that.

But he now believed return was possible only because he wanted to believe, not because he could any longer envision what such a thing might really look like. He had faith, however, that their answer lay in Asgard and was willing to barter The Dragon's strength and his magic to achieve the end he desired. And if Loki interfered, if Thanos became something more real than a boggart haunting the mind of the god of lies, then they'd kill him.

A/N: Because Hungarian Horntails are the tigers of the magical world.


	31. Conservation of Angular Momentum

A/N: The short disappearance this time was caused by the fact that, to put it kindly, I'm somewhat fashion challenged. So, designing such an important aspect of a superhero fic as the costume was and is faintly horrifying. I now have workable designs for both Harry and Hermione, but I'm somewhat interested to hear-or see, if you want to get terribly ambitious-what sort of armor and fabric arrangements would suit our two Wizards. Keep in mind that it will be Asgard, rather than S.H.I.E.L.D., who will be designing them. Although if you want to suggest an alternative S.H.I.E.L.D. design, that would be interesting too. They have no secret identities to protect, what with their glamour, so no masks necessary.

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Thirty-

Conservation of Angular Momentum

Hermione awoke to the sensation of warmth from below, as if she'd slept on a bed of dying embers, but it was the more insistent heat from the sun, which seemed to be putting forth entirely too much effort into proving that even enveloping robes weren't proof against heat although centuries of desert nomads before her would testify them to be a better choice than current scanty Muggle clothing. It was only lucky coincidence her robes were a woven fabric lightly enchanted, which allowed for better billowing and draping, rather than the heavier cloth that England's climate really demanded and which would have saw her boiled.

An awful stench, familiar and pungent, filled her nostrils with a metallic odor of encroaching rot. Blood, a great deal of it. The thought led her back to Harry, who wasn't quite the least comfortable mattress she'd ever slept on, but who came very close. She risked shifting to ease some of the stiffness of her muscles. The faintest glimpse of eyes alerted her that she'd woken Harry or he'd never slept before he grunted and his chest shifted as he extended his wings, sheltering them at least partially from the sun.

Untangling her gauntleted fingers from his hair, Hermione briefly considered if there was an unembarrassing way to sit up. But recalling that it was Harry's actions that had placed them at this impasse to begin with, she decided he could feel ashamed for both of them and pushed herself upright. The narrow slits that he continued to observe her through made it impossible to judge the color of his eyes, which had gleamed near golden last night.

"You wore those robes to the decennial celebration to the end of the war," he observed in a voice that was barely human yet. "They're ruined."

Hermione glanced down at the blood-smeared fabric. Harry had had enough blood on him that parts of her robes were still damp where it had been pressed between their bodies. But, like most problems that had confronted housewitches over the long ages, Mrs. Weasley had known a spell for this, though it had originally been intended to deal with a feminine issue and not with being drenched in the blood of one's enemies.

With a sharp word and gesture, the blood was banished from her clothing. She hesitated to do the same for Harry, because there was something of the stranger to him now, something unexpected. Hermione trusted the dragon that he struggled against, because the instant Harry confessed he knew her as his hoard, she'd known that the dragon would never harm her physically. Emotionally distress her, perhaps, by what he would do in defense of her or by instants like with the Aether, but never do what he thought of as hurt.

Harry was another matter.

She trusted that he would not harm her intentionally, but he was unpredictable in a temper. And she'd rarely seen him so angry as last night.

It had not been an undirected anger, either. When she'd entered his mind, she felt the stabs of accusation. Harry had seen her at peace and felt betrayed by her acceptance. And she could make no apologies for it, because Harry didn't understand politic apologies from friends. If she apologized, he would assume that she felt she was in the wrong, which she very much did not.

So she sat on him and regarded him silently for a long moment. And when he didn't speak, she made to get up properly, because she was beginning to feel faintly ridiculous perched on top of him.

But his hands caught her forearms.

"Why?" he demanded roughly.

"Be more specific, Harry," she asked quietly, much less sharply than she usually would.

"You-you want to stay," he accused.

"It's not so much that I want to stay, it's that eventually I have to face reality. How long have we been here, Harry? How much longer until we can return?" She would have shifted, but she would rather internalize her discomfort than wallow on Harry's lap.

His eyes were more green than gold, which reassured her. "You know how Ron is," she said softly. "He might have felt overshadowed by his family, but them always being around, always tripping over each other meant that he never really had to grow accustomed to being alone. He'll remarry. And his new wife may well not have my same reservations about having children. And then what? I spring from the dead? Where's my place in that future, Harry? Once, before this, it was all I could think about. But it's been too long. They've had too much time to accept that we won't be coming back. I know they say hope never dies, only falters, but we weren't abducted children, Harry. We hunted some of the most dangerous Wizards our world had to offer. I expect," and her voice caught, "most thought we were dead for a long time now. That there just weren't any bodies left to find."

This time he left her pull away. Glass crunched beneath her feet, the remains of her mausoleum creating a jagged landscape that inspired a twinge of resentment. She'd felt more at peace last night than she'd allowed herself to be for a very long time. And Harry had shattered that at the same moment he had the glass, trapping her against the hard surface with eyes full of a wild violence. That she'd been able to sleep at all was unusual, let alone so soundly.

But even if it irked her, she understood Harry's selfish need. He'd allowed her into his mind, let her see what he couldn't stand to say.

She felt a niggle of unease at how often she'd been slipping into other's minds, how easy it was on this world. Even Loki, who'd thought of himself as a god, hadn't had any barriers she couldn't breach. But they were all Muggles, she reminded herself, and the æsir didn't have any equivalent mind magics.

Summoning her wand, she began to return the desert to its stark self, the glass and crushed marble resuming their previous nature. She hadn't infused either with enough magic to make the transfiguration permanent, but there was no need to risk someone discovering anything out of place.

Harry had levered himself into a sitting position, wings partially extended like a gargoyle perched on the stonework of a cathedral, loose hair falling forward over his shoulders. Because he hadn't pulled it back, some of it flopped over his brow horns. But even his misbehaving hair couldn't manage to make him look less grim.

"So, even if I asked, you wouldn't return?" Harry asked as he stared at his hands.

Hermione sighed heavily and turned to face him. "I'd choose you," she said, not without bitterness. "Just as I always do, Harry. But don't make me choose. I've thought about this, considered what I'd do if I did go back and found Ron married to someone else. Found someone else heading our team, saw how I'd been _replaced_. And I'm not a big enough person to take that gracefully."

That eerie translucent lid slid across his eye as he stared at her unblinkingly. "I wish," he said heavily, at last, "that you didn't think so much, sometimes. Because you force me to think."

Hermione softened toward him, as she always did. "It's irrelevant anyway. There's no path, so there's no choice to make."

"One day there might be," Harry said softly.

"Then we'll make it then," Hermione retorted, collecting the last of her things. "Back to Asgard then?"

"You haven't asked me who all this blood belongs to," Harry said, still in that low voice.

"Eventually, I'll ask. I'm not emotionally prepared to discovery how many exceptions I'm prepared to make."

His grin was shaky, crooked, but present. "It wasn't a person. Just a lot of cattle." He stood, the glass beneath him slithering back into sand. Stooping, he offered her the cloak that had served them through the night and Hermione tucked it in her purse. "I wish...," he whispered, "that we weren't here, Hermione. That we'd killed Smelt and gone home. Went to Mrs. Weasley's for Sunday dinner. But I am glad to be doing something that isn't fumbling around in the dark."

Hermione smiled. "I'm objective-driven. For me, this is an unimaginable relief."

"Let's _not _go back to Asgard. Not yet," Harry blurted. "We've still got two days yet-let's do something that doesn't have anything to do with saving the world or making peace in a kingdom or being heroic in any shape or form. Something fun."

If he hadn't said in such a heavy, serious tone, Hermione would have demanded to know what he'd done with the real Harry. As it was, it was still so uncharacteristic that she stared. Harry was very much a creature of dedication to grief, as if when he was upset he didn't want to be reminded that the world would proceed on without whomever he'd lost and that most of it would be happy while he was sad. She'd learned to simply avoid him on the rare occasions they lost someone from the squad, because there was no right thing to say to Harry then, nothing that couldn't trigger him from lashing out.

That much hadn't changed from when they were children, though it wasn't so pronounced or prolonged as that awful summer after Sirius had died. But there were fewer losses nowadays, fewer things to mourn.

"Is there a reason you don't want to go back?" she prodded gently.

"It's not so much that as I can't remember the last time we did something simply because we wanted to. So what do you want to do?" Harry asked.

If she was prepared to be honest with Harry, she would have preferred to return immediately to Asgard to maximize her time to prepare for their quest. But Harry was reaching out and she couldn't casually disregard his extended hand. Hermione mentally fumbled for a suggestion, but it had been so long since she'd allowed herself more than an quiet afternoon with a book that nothing she could think of that seemed grand enough in scale to suit the offer.

Harry sensed her hesitation, because he chuckled. "Let me make it easier. With people or without? Sand or grass? Warm or cold? Where in the world would Hermione Granger go, if she could go anywhere? Do anything? Without worrying about deadlines or rules or battles?"

The answer, as it turned out, after an odd phone call where Tony dryly reported that the news in Iceland was reporting dragon sightings, was a scenic little town in Ireland. She hadn't expected Tony Stark would suggest such a low-key kind of vacation as he preferred to bask in sunlight and attention, but JARVIS was better than any travel agent in the world.

With a great pub or three, a neighboring horse farm that was amenable to lending out a pair of horses for an afternoon amble, and enough Irish hospitality and local color to permeate the whole experience, Hermione enjoyed an outing that ranked above her own honeymoon, which had turned into a disastrous clash of her need to feel her time was well-spent and Ron's need for a more casual approach to travel. It had taken them time to strike the balance that had made the latter parts of their marriage much smoother than those first tumultuous years.

But even though her relationship with Ron was called to mind, it wasn't as painful as it might have been. Harry had been to Ireland with her before, even though they'd been hosted at that time by members of Seamus Finnegan's extended magical family as they pursued leads on one of their targets. Though they'd been avoiding areas where they'd been before almost religiously, she coaxed Harry into revisiting places that had become familiar to them. They were odd, devoid of magic as they were, but the beauty to be found there cleared out some of the corrosive attachments that had been gnawing at her for all these years.

Even good things, when treasured too highly and clung to too tightly, could become evil.

When they returned to Asgard two days later, Hermione felt prepared to confront even Loki's machinations and Hel herself. Which lasted until the instant that she received word that while Harry would be remaining in Asgard proper and being hosted by Thor at Bilskirnir, Odin had decided that he would personally oversee her education. And he was taking her hunting by way of training, prey and location both to be a surprise.

Hermione had never really liked surprises.

A/N: I personally disliked this chapter, but the sulky melancholy is finished and epic adventure can proceed from here on out.


	32. Operating on the Exclusion Principle

A/N: Everyone among my reviewers continues to be wonderful! But you already knew that, didn't you? And you silent readers as well, I hope you continue to enjoy TRuS-but enough talk, on to the next chapter.

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Thirty-One-

Operating on the Exclusion Principle

Hermione attempted to ignore the brief flash of betrayal and pain she'd glimpsed from Loki before he could manage to conceal it, but the memory kept resurfacing, the expressive widening of his celadon eyes before his lashes had shuttered his vulnerability with his familiar sardonic expression. She wasn't in the habit of questioning the decisions of her superiors, let along kings who had ruled their Realm for longer than humans had been recording history, but Odin was so blatant that he'd tipped the warmth that flattery had always given her toward the chill of expected retaliation.

So, when they were alone, she shadowing him down another of the innumerable halls, she asked, "Sire, is it wise to bait your sons?" It was the most politic phrasing she could conjure that he couldn't equally politically ignore.

"It does them good to be discomfited on occasion. Thor asking for use of his own hall will remind him of his place, which is not upon my throne, making decisions that rightly belong to me unless I am victim of the Odinsleep. And catering to Loki's jealous nature will not help him overcome it. I am a king-I will never be able to give him the sort of unadulterated parental affection that he desires from me and he refuses to cultivate the love of the masses as Thor has." He glanced back at her. "And I think you capable enough of countering any sort of retaliation that my actions might provoke. When we part, you will be less helpless than you have ever been. These sorts of hunts are considered rites of passage on Asgard-without one, you are yet a child."

She quashed the urge to reply snippily that she'd been in a _war _when barely considered an adult by Wizarding law. War was a universally terrible experience and it catholically deprived children of the sort of blissful, prolonged childhood that Hermione had hoped to enjoy at Hogwarts, but just as a war waged with magic was entirely different beast than one fought with guns, so was Asgardian warfare different than either.

Fought with swords and spears and other weapons that even Muggles had long since discarded, it created a scenario where it was almost impossible to kill without seeing your enemy's face. It was a kind of battle that produced a false intimacy that was impossible to build through a rifle's sights or in the madhouse of a magical battle lit only by the malicious light of curses and made fluid as a dream by battle Apparation. It took a different kind of courage to meet an enemy blade to blade, testing your strength in a very physical way against theirs. It wasn't a kind of fight Hermione had any experience in and she wasn't eager to gain any, though Odin seemed quite determined that she would at the very least not harm herself with her own weapon again.

Hermione picked distastefully at the chainmail and leather arrangement she'd been lent, which she thought quite an uneven trade for her Ministry-issued armor. She'd been told her Ministry spelled leather would be 'inadequate' for their descent to Helheim and it had been handed over to Odin's forge, which apparently didn't only work metal. It would be repaired from her battle with Malekith and used as an interior layer and padding for the final product, which she was apparently unqualified to give input to.

So she waited with somewhat less than bated breath, though she did hope that it wouldn't be terribly embarrassing to wear. Hermione didn't have quite the right air to wear a horned helmet with dignity.

"May I ask where we're going?" Hermione asked. When he said 'hunt', if he meant that this was to be a glorified camping trip on which they killed some species of animal, she thought she might find it tolerable, perhaps even pleasant. Despite her proclivities for Beings rights, she wasn't against hunting game or pest animals. The Weasley family had hunted for reasons of thrift, needing none of the expensive equipment or permits required of Muggles. Haunch of venison was likelier to be seen any day than beef, unless it was the corned beef that Ron dreaded.

Hogwarts had offered a more mundane board, as far as Wizarding tables went, for it was a school and had to feed even those with Muggleborn sensibilities, but she'd since enjoyed oddities such as stuffed dormouse, staples of feasts such as suckling pig, and even delicacies such as roasted swan. Which was in part why Jane had been appalled by some of the creatures present on Asgard's tables, while she and Harry had taken it quite in stride. Even that did not begin to compare to sitting down at the Lovegood's, where many of the offerings looked to belong in a Care of Magical Creatures classroom rather than on a plate. At least Asgardian treats didn't squirm in protest when you tried to eat it-it was one of the many reasons Hermione had never really enjoyed chocolate frogs, which tended to stare at one accusingly and plot escape.

"You may ask, but you will wait for your answer," Odin replied.

Hermione accepted that answer and lapsed back into silence, her mind occupied with tracking their route through the palace, which seemed at times to be the equal in size to a small town. After seven years at Hogwarts, it had still been possible to take a careless turn and end up in a hallway never seen before and sometimes never seen again except in rumors. The palace at Asgard gave her the same sort of impression, though she was grateful that none of the staircases moved.

When sunlight courtyards and long, vaulted halls had begun to blend together in a hazy collage of vast grandness in her mind, they passed through a set of doors that Odin opened for her. Stepping to one side, he indicated for her to proceed ahead of him. She silently obeyed and Hermione was startled to be greeted with a neutral but invasive inspection by two wolves the size of cart horses. There was a tiny 'eep' of alarm that she managed to swallow before it escaped her lips, but though her alarm was silent, it was very much present.

"Geri and Freki," Odin introduced, each wolf's ears pricking in turn as they were introduced. "Where we are going is not a place horses care to venture, nor is it feasible to take enough feed for animals who can't consume the flesh of the prey we will hunt. These shall serve as our mounts."

Hermione, who did not believe in any sort of divination except that of Arithmancy, was suddenly very taken with a premonition that this was not going to be some sort of pleasant jaunt through the woods stalking boars and stags. If they were to be riding wolves and traveling through a landscape that wouldn't even support horses, it was no sort of place to look forward to.

She purposefully set aside her unease as she tried to come to terms with the unconventional steeds being proffered.

Ron had bought her a fancy hippogriff after she'd fallen in love with riding winged beasts, the creatures actually lower maintenance than any breed of winged horses, though the former required a permit while only the more exotic of the latter-such as the giant Abraxans-required one. She'd named him Gaoth, his forequarters and head bearing distinctive barring and feather patterns of a red-tailed hawk and his hindquarters and temperament that of an expensive warmblood. With his elegant, dangerous beak he'd perfectly capable of stripping flesh from bone in moments.

But these wolves were something else altogether. Their thick, heavy pelts were black at the base, silvering near the end of the hair. They were near enough in stature to be almost twins, but Freki had a strip of white from one side of his mouth across the top of the muzzle like a thin scar and Geri had lighter fur across the ridges where the eyebrows would have been in a human, making him the more expressive of the two.

Hermione held herself very still as both wolves took turns snuffling her, pressing oversized, cold noses into places she'd rather they wouldn't. Finally Freki nudged her shoulder proprietarily and whuffed softly.

Odin nodded. "Freki has agreed to bear you."

She recalled Hagrid's lessons about bowing to hippogriffs very distinctly, but there was nothing in her vaunted memory the provided her the correct response to a wolf that could probably fit her entire head into his mouth before ripping it from her shoulders. Did she bow, like she might with Gaoth? Praise him like a dog? Fluffy had looked like a beast that guarded the gates of hell, but she'd met more of his ilk and if not guarding something, the only danger from them came in the form of the three heads competing for attention. But there was something intelligent lurking in their eyes. It was akin to looking into the eyes of a werewolf-there was an intelligence present, certainly, but not one that she could understand, too feral and instinctual to be human, but too controlled and reasoning to be simply a beast.

"My thanks, Freki," she said after worrying the issue for a moment longer. Freki dipped his head in a nod of acknowledgement. "Are we...riding bareback?"

"Of course not," Odin said. "There are saddles and headstalls waiting with the rest of our equipment. They are ridden without a bit, so that they may bite, but so long as you are no fool and they agree to bear you, they will obey your direction. The other members of our party will be similarly mounted on lesser wolves."

"Other members...?" Hermione inquired cautiously. The more information she was given about this venture, the more uneasily she felt, which was the inverse of her usual reaction.

"Warriors and thralls. It will be a proper royal hunting party. Frigga chose a thrall for you with a young woman's sensibilities in mind, or so she said to me. He'll see to your mount and gear."

"I don't need any help," Hermione said stiffly. Never mind that judicious use of magic would make it unnecessary, her sentiments about unpaid labor made her stance on the cultural practice clear enough.

"Need is irrelevant. These thralls were chosen for a reason to accompany us. The demeaning tasks are only part of their punishment."

Hermione blinked. "I think I'll need you to define thrall for me."

"All the thralls in Asgard are reduced to that status as a form of punishment." He indicated with his hand that they should continue walking while they spoke and Hermione fell into step only slightly behind him. "Imprisonment on a long-term scale is impractical for such a long-lived race as ours. Eventually the prisoners would become an unsustainable burden. We kill the most heinous criminals, of course, those who commit crimes on a massive scale or are judged irredeemable, but for all other crimes, including murder, there are two paths open to those who seek redress for the victim. Wergild, which exacts a material price, or thralldom, in which the criminal serves out the same sentence they would have in prison as someone's thrall. Some serve out their sentence laboring for the family of their victims, but there are some crimes too personal to trust in obedience to the letter of the law. Murderers and deserters from the field of battle are among those. Most of them are sent out to the fields to pay back their crime from the sweat of their brow, but there are a special few kept close for their skills or because they are convenient servants. It's why we have little need for prisons."

Hermione finally caught sight of activity ahead that looked suspiciously like their destination, with an arched courtyard full of men and wolves. The warriors and thralls, freely intermixed, were busily discussing the storage of supplies, checking the stitching and general repair of the tack for the wolves, comparing weapons and judging weight.

"My einherjar companions of choice for a hunt such as this-Thidrek, Vidrik, and Sigurd."

Hermione felt a little faint at the casual introduction, Odin dismissively casting his hand toward each man as they were named. It was one thing to accompany Odin, who'd proven himself quite fallibly human in his parenting, but she was about to join a hunt with kings or the companions to kings who'd ridden straight out of legend. She felt safer, yes, but also immeasurably less convinced she would be able to make a proper case for not instructing her in the use of her weapons. Her mind was her greatest weapon and would remain so, her magic second, and descending to physical force was a very distant seventh beyond options she hadn't yet explored.

Thidrek was the oldest in appearance of the three, a sober, grave man with shoulder-length dark hair streaked with white on either side of his face. Much like Thor, he wore a neatly trimmed beard, just going to grey. Girt at his belt was a longsword. Nagelring, if she recalled her legends correctly.

Where he was slender and dare she say it, somewhat noble in aspect, Vidrik was taller and more muscular, standing a good head and a half taller than he. He, at least, conformed to the overwhelming predisposition to be blond, but it was a dirty, sand color, though thick as a lion's mane and elaborately arranged in thick braids. From over his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of an enormous sword that, if they were at home, she might have called a claymore.

She was no weapons expert, but her early Muggle lessons on Vikings had never mentioned use of such a weapon. Several of the suits of armor at Hogwarts had been armed with them and she'd been told by _Hogwarts, A History _that they were late medieval, earlier metalworking too primitive to support the length of the blade in combat without snapping because of impurities. All of them were Muggle in origin, Wizarding smithing developing along a very different vein as they competed with the goblins and made use of dragon and other magical fires to create a heat Muggle technology had been incapable of matching. But, if she was to believe the legends and he was the son of Wayland the Smith-she supposed the æsir would have known him as Volund-he had the advantage of far superior metalwork. Mimring, she recalled, was its name.

And last of all was Sigurd, red-gold hair shining in the sunlight. If it had been Sigurd in Harry's place, no one would have ever doubted him to be the Chosen One. There was something so breathtakingly heroic about him that she was reminded of the youthful form Odin had shown her and the mythological record that said he was descended from one of Odin's son. But that, at least, was unlikely, for Odin hadn't spoken of any such thing and Hermione wrote it off as a historical tradition of tying the lineage of kings to gods. That would make his weapon most probably Gram, which was also said to have been forged by Volund. She caught sight of it at his hip, two snarling wolves rampant where the hilt met blade and disappeared into the sheath.

She'd never felt so out of place in her entire life. And considering the places and people she had been among, that was a powerful statement.

But Sigurd caught sight of them and approached, clapping a friendly hand on her shoulder. "So this is the young woman in question. We are told you are a powerful sorceress but unblooded in true combat. Fear not, for we shall have that corrected apace," he told her with good cheer. He, apparently, was excited by the prospect of this 'hunt.'

Hermione could only nod numbly, studying the reactions of the other two members of the group. Thidrek was watching her in turn, arms crossed loosely across his chest. And a faint smile played across Vidrik's face. "Three weeks in the Realm Below hunting rock-trolls is enough to make even a woman a man," he promised her. "Seven foot tall creatures with the strength of beasts and the minds of evil men. After the Svartalfur attack, we've been seeing regular intrusions on the surface, so we're going to remind them who rules the surface Realm and send them scurrying back into the darkness beneath Jotunheim. "

Hermione glanced over at Odin for clarification of the baffling layout of Realms and also in the faint hope that he would tell her that Vidrik was only having her on about the rock-trolls. But Odin only answered her unspoken question regarding dimensional geography.

"The Realm Beneath is an enormous cavern system that bridges worlds. The bulk of it lays beneath Jotunheim, but several of the tunnels lead to the surface of Asgard. The trolls are a tenacious race-we've been killing their warriors for millennia, but still they persist."

"If I must learn how to use a weapon, wouldn't it make sense to learn in a controlled environment?" Hermione asked, loath to appear to be a coward but very much seeing only the possibility of things going terribly wrong with this scenario. If her voice was slightly higher-pitched than usual, at least it was steady.

Sigurd smiled companionably at her. "You needn't worry too much-the Allfather has chosen us to accompany him on this hunt, so you'll never be in so much danger as to be at a loss. But, as Vidrik would tell you, there is no warrior come of age in Asgard who was considered a man before he spilt blood on a battlefield proper. In this case, you are no proper woman until you've tested steel against an enemy's flesh."

Hermione raised her brows skeptically. "Not to be insulting, but anything that can be accomplished with steel, I can do more efficiently with magic."

"And perhaps you can," Thidrek said, speaking for the first time, "but depending too much on a single weapon can lead to failure at a crucial juncture when you find that weapon useless. There is no one in this party that will gainsay the judicious use of magic-all of us wield weapons that are more than merely good steel. And none here will goad you into foolish and careless battle, unlike young Thor, who would have died long ago if he'd ever worn mortal flesh. Sigurd did not come to be called the Dragon Slayer because he challenged Fafnir to open combat. There is a great deal you might learn from us and very little time for you to prepare for an endeavor that not even we have been allowed to undertake."

Hermione glanced sharply at Odin. "Very few would think this sort of quest punishment," Odin said, "for it offers the kind of fame most appealing to an Asgardian warrior. But I will not allow any of the einherjar to make the journey to Helheim. Hel was given rule over only the ill and the old, but she also collects those who fall between the gaps, such as Balder, who was neither old nor ill, but who did not die in battle. Hel is not evil, nor is she greedy, but she does make the most of opportunity. And I will not endanger my warriors, who already number among the dead and are therefore vulnerable to her power."

Slowly, Hermione nodded, accepting his answer. She was still curious as to Odin's particular interest in Harry and her, but perhaps he was also an opportunist. "Are the preparations complete?" Odin asked Thidrek.

The man nodded, gesturing with his hand to encompass the neatly packed supplies, waiting only to be loaded onto their packwolves or whatever term might suit for such odds beasts of burden. "We are ready to depart whenever you give the word, my liege."

Odin nodded.

Hermione hesitated, then decided against offering to cast an Undetectable Extending Charm on a pair of saddlebags and thereby reduce the clutter. She'd forgotten how many things people needed to pack for long journeys and how much space was taken up be said things. Weight and size had long ago ceased to be a consideration for her own preparations, spoiled as she was by her magical tent and theoretically endless depths of her purse. The charm was luckily a self-sustaining spell, otherwise Hermione didn't doubt that she would have killed herself with the stress of maintaining it long ago.

It wasn't that she didn't want to be helpful, nor was she at this point attempting to be discreet for the sheer sake of it, but it seemed that this packing was likely as much a part of the tradition of the hunt as being accompanied by thralls. There were nine of them, each with their hair shorn short except for thin braids that began at their temple and fell to what she assumed had been the previous length of their hair. They also all wore thick collars of a dark metal. She thought them all different at first, but then she noticed that they were instead paired, with only one man who had a different pattern entirely than the others.

Odin noted the direction of her attention. "They all answer to 'Varger'," he informed her. "They surrendered their right to their name and the chance to accrue glory to it when they committed their crime. You," he said sharply, "thrall to Hermione of the Grange."

The man with the unique pattern to his collar drew nearer to them. He was nearly as tall as Vidrik, she noted, but whereas Vidrik was built like a bear, all hulking muscles, this one was lean and wiry. There was something pointed about his face, his eyes an unnerving yellow. Three old, white scars scored him across his face between his eyes and lips. The regular spacing indicated either it was damage that had been dealt by a weapon with equidistant tips, like a trident, or it was a form of ritual scarring. His skin was pale, but his hair was paler yet, the platinum blond that reminded her of a Malfoy. He was also bare to the waist, excepting the vambraces on his forearms.

"This one was a beserker, once," Odin said. "An _ulfhendinn_. Now he will be yours to use as you will. He will have the care of your tack and kit."

The man bowed shallowly to her without his eyes ever once breaking contact with her own. "It will be my honor," he rasped without a hint of inflection, "to serve the sorceress."

"Speaking of sorcery," Vidrik interjected, "I for one would like to see the spear that Thor described. Will that be your weapon of choice?"

Hermione worried her lip, then slowly turned her palm so that it faced Vidrik. Closing her hand about an invisible scabbard, she felt it solidify in her grasp.

Rather than looking surprised, Vidrik merely looked intrigued. "Unsheathe it?" he suggested.

The weapon she'd realized was Fragarach, which was a slender blade without the distinctive guard that characterized most European swords. It was almost an overgrown skean. The hilt was of oak, much like her wand, and eddies of wind could be detected faintly if one held one's hand near the bared blade. Unsheathing it without grace, she held it horizontal in front of her so that the inscription on the blade could be read-_abair an firinne. _To speak the truth. Fragarach had one of the most powerful spell of truth-compulsion known to Wizardkind laid into its very steel.

Sheathing it and releasing it back to wherever it stored itself when not in hand, a mystery that Hermione had yet to solve, she realized Dyrnwyn next, shifting her hands to accommodate it's greater length and weight. A ring-hilted sword of Gallowglass make, it had a very distinctive white hilt of some material Hermione had been unable to determine. This one she pulled only slightly from the sheathe, the exposed metal flaring with blue-white flame like it was magnesium set alight.

Without waiting for commentary from the onlookers, she sent it away and closed her hand around the Luin of Celthar, its binding once again intact so that the blackened metal and wood looked to be covered in frost. It was entirely too long and had a leaf-shaped blade. The quenching of its flames made it possible to see that designs that covered every inch of the blade and shaft, but it was impossible to make out what they depicted.

"Quite the armory," Vidrik commented, stepping closer. "This one in particular has a terrible hunger for death lying upon it. I'd wager it has killed those who wield it as well as their enemies."

"That would be the tale told of it," Hermione agreed.

"Then we will feed it well," Sigurd said with a laugh. "Though I cannot imagine owning such weapons without making us of them. But time enough for that when we are in the tunnels. Shall we be off, then?"

Odin nodded, then turned to the waiting thralls. "Saddle the wolves," he said. "We depart."

A/N: Am I just making stuff up about Asgardian culture at this point? Yes, yes I am. And if you happen to speak Irish Gaelic-I'm still not even certain of what the proper term is for the language-and you happen to take umbrage at my internet gleaned translation, by all means correct me. If you want a clearer image of my concept for Dyrnwyn, search the term 'Albion Gallowglass Irish Sword'.


	33. Existence in a Double-Star System (B)

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Thirty-Two-

Existence in a Double-Star System

(_Below)_

Wolves, Hermione discovered quickly, were gaited quite differently than horses or hippogriffs, but Freki had a smooth lope that he could maintain with an unnatural stamina. Despite herself and despite knowing their destination, Hermione felt a secret thrill. _This _feeling was why she adored riding-not just for the freedom of flight, like Harry, but from the sense of empowerment that came from guiding such majestic beasts. Power and strength well beyond her own, all willing to be obedient to her command.

It was, after long days of making certain Harry didn't go rogue because he didn't like the pace of an investigation, very reassuring.

And Freki was truly magnificent, his pelt even thicker than it first appeared with a heavy undercoat that should have had him panting in the warmth of Asgard, but even after traveling for hours he was hardly breathing more heavily than when they'd started. She'd worried at little, about the comfort of riding wolfback, but she needn't have feared, the saddle and harness all very similar to what she was accustomed to. Despite his height, he was narrower at the withers and along his body than a hippogriff, but it was actually more comfortable rather than less. And, as was true of almost everything she'd seen in Asgard, there was no simply functional equipment to be had. Freki's tack was beautifully tooled leather, the breastcollar and breeching alone qualifying as works of master artisans, let alone the high-cantled saddle which featured gleaming silver inlay.

She pulled back gently on the reigns as she noticed Odin, who led their party, had raised a hand in signal that they were to halt. An enormous dark fissure, like a shadow in the grass, lay ahead.

"The road to the Realm Below," Sigurd commented as he reigned in his wolf near Freki but not so close that Freki felt his space was being encroached upon. Freki and Geri stood nearly two hands higher than any of the other wolves, so tall that mounting required some agility and arm strength.

"We'll eat under sunlight," Odin said as he dismounted Geri more gracefully than a man in full armor ought to be able to. "It will be the last for some time."

Hermione slipped slightly less gracefully from her own saddly, following Odin's example by letting her split reigns simply drop, Freki eyeing his girth pointedly. Quick fingers loosened it and the wolf settled on the grass, pillowing his enormous head on his forelimbs. She was a little lost as to what to do after that, as it seemed the thralls were expected to prepare lunch, so she was grateful to Sigurd when he indicated that she should sit next to him in the grass. Thidrek and Odin joined them moments later. None of the men seemed surprised when a raven alighted on Odin's shoulder and another in the grass. Unlike the wolves, she had more difficulty telling which was Huginn and which was Muninn.

She murmured quiet thanks as Vargar-she was still trying to wrap her mind around the concept of a name that wasn't a name, something that even House Elves possessed-pressed her share of perfectly acceptable traveling fare into her hands before silently retreating. Nibbling at it, Hermione listened to Thidrek's explanation of rock-trolls, which were disturbingly Being-like in his description, even if they were more like hags than centaurs. Still, there was some moral quibbling to be done with herself. She'd killed before, under the auspices of the Ministry. If one stripped all context from her profession, she was little more than a killer was a professional skillset, but there was a great deal of context. The men she'd hunted weren't even fit for the title any longer by the time the Wizengamot passed judgment.

No, they'd all been something much darker, something that was an unnerving glimpse of what the darkness of the human soul looked like when accompanied by powers that made them more dangerous than any one Muggle could dream of being. Once, some of them had even liked to make out like they were gods and some Wizards still carried within them a spark of that old arrogance. These rock-trolls sounded intimidating, what with their strength, but she didn't feel the same awareness of them as a threat. It would make her hesitate, make her sloppy in battle, and she wasn't foolish enough to think that what talent and experience she had to offer would keep her safe in a foreign environment against an enemy that she hadn't had time to properly study.

So she quietly coaxed Sigurd and Vidrik to tell her stories about past raids and battles fought against them, gaining a sense of their brutality and her needed sense of justification. Hermione had an odd, almost contradictory relationship with battle. She thought of violence a base action, something to resort to only when words and diplomacy failed. But she could not in all honesty deny the satisfaction that the violence brought, the same sort of empowerment and sense of control that riding gave her amplified tenfold. It was a guilty, awful thing, that. But no more than indulging in too much spiced wine or another else that breached her code of self-discipline.

When her morality had been satisfied, she fell silent but for the occasional clarifying question, content to study the dynamic between the four men and guess at how she might fit into it. Three weeks was a very long time to linger awkwardly on the fringes. But there was none of that unapproachable aura that had been said to linger about Harry, Ron, and her. Sigurd seemed to be going out of his way to make her feel welcomed.

Though she'd gleaned many much-needed answers, their break was brief. "It's cooler in the caves," Sigurd advised her as he donned a cloak.

"If you think it cool in the caves, wait 'til we're under Jotunheim. There's some weather that can freeze a man's balls," Vidrik commented as one of his thralls produced a huge fur-lined affair from one of the packs. A dark, heavy fur-perhaps some kind of bear? "Jotunheim's got the heart of a frigid virgin-the cold goes all the way through."

Hermione shot the taller man an appalled glance and he winked at her, but no one else reacted to the crude humor. Which, she thought dryly, meant that it was quite in character.

Movement from the corner of her eye caused her to turn. Vargar was there, his steps muffled by the grass, she supposed. He held something folded in his arms.

"Consider it the first piece of your armor," Odin said. "Helheim is a chill place-the cold alone would deter most."

Biting her lip, Hermione reached forward to unfurl her gift. It was a cloak, as she had expected, but she was delighted to discover, when Vargar took it gently from her hands and tucked it over her shoulders, that it had slits for her arms so that it didn't have to be fussed with. The finely-woven fabric was a light, silvered grey. But it was not the fabric that surprised her. All about her shoulders and crowding close to her neck was a pelt. It was from no creature she knew of, with the volume of fur but the appearance, almost, of feathers, tufting out several inches in all directions and as dull black as the feathers of a crow.

"It's from a hrafngrim, a beast which makes its home on Jotunheim's most inhospitable reaches," Vidrik explained as she explored the texture of it, parts of it coarse and parts downy. "It looks like the bastard child of a monstrous raven and a wolverine. It's valued because it doesn't accumulate frost and rare because it's a nasty little beast."

There was a cloak pin as well, forged from red gold, the pattern almost a match for the metal setting of the Heart.

Hermione had never acted in her life, excepting when she lied to people, but she certainly felt more in character for a warrior descending into tunnels with men out of legend as she mounted Freki, cloak swirling about her. "There's magic laid in the weave," Sigurd informed her. "So that it won't catch or tangle. Otherwise wearing cloaks might be a dangerous business."

"And you'll never catch a proper Asgardian warrior wearing a hooded cloak," Vidrik said conversationally as they padded forward toward the dark crevice. "Lack of peripheral vision can kill a man."

She was blind for a moment as they went from sunlight to darkness, the loose formation narrowing as they accommodated for the closeness of the cave walls. Soft, yellow light flared, produced by floating orbs that trailed Odin, who continued to lead them. There was a low, distinct rumble from Freki. Noticing how Thedric's hand had gone to Nagelring, she considered realizing one of her own weapons, but until the space widened out, it would only be in the way. And, really, she couldn't use it on foot, so what would be the point of attempting to wield it on wolfback? Until she received some proper instruction, she would likely be as dangerous to her mount and companions as the rock-trolls.

"It opens up ahead," Sigurd said from behind her in a low and carrying whisper. "Be ready."

One hand tightened on her reigns, Hermione steeled herself for her first glimpse of a rock troll. With a snarl, Geri suddenly surged forward, a wave of silvered black fur that crested and crashed against a tall figure that seemed to form from the uncertain shadows along the side of the tunnel. There was a terrible din, all of a sudden, as Thedrik spurred his own mount forward past Odin, Nagelring flashing in the golden light. It was quickly quenched as he drove the long blade into another opponent that seemed to emerge from the rock-face. With Sigurd's wolf crowding close behind and Freki's own eagerness, she found herself inextricably pulled into the thick of the battle, an enormous shape looming ahead of her.

Her subconscious mind processed the enormous bulk of her opponent, which stood at least seven foot tall and was possessed of square, craggy features and large pointed ears clearly visible even through thick hair. But her hand was already moving in a sharp slashing motion, the curse silent but no less effective for it. Flesh parted beneath the force of her magic and Freki was in motion beneath her, snout disappearing inside the gaping wound. There was a loud snap as something bone gave way beneath powerful jaws, but Hermione was already turning her attention to a second opponent.

Their language sounded something like someone banging rocks together, but she didn't need to be able to understand it to know that she was being threatened.

The rock-troll charged at her like a maddened boar and Freki whirled to meet it, jaws snapping, but with a powerful leap it was airborne and out of the wolf's reach. Hermione had to drop to one side to avoid having her skull smashed in by a two-toed foot, gripping the saddle more firmly with her thighs as Freki followed the movement. The wolf hardly needed her direction, sidling in close and avoiding a fist that shattered and cracked solid stone where they'd been only moments before.

Her hand emulating the movement she would have made with a wand, the rock-troll was flung into the wall with a blast of concussive force. But though shards of rock clattered to the floor, it simply shook its head and redoubled it's attack. So she changed tactics, summoning the shards of rock that had been dislodged by the troll's body, transfiguring them into razor-sharp obsidian glass before she sent them hurtling away from her with a repelling charm.

That provoked a roar of rage as they sunk deep into its leathery-looking flesh, but little more, so Hermione decided the severing charm that had been her first instinct was the best. This time it was like sliding a knife up the belly of a fish, flesh parting smoothly and entrails spilling out in noxious smelling mess. Freki expedited the process by darting forward and clamping teeth over intestine, yanking backward in a gruesome tug-of-war.

Eyes already seeking out a new opponent, Hermione found that the fighting had finished. Sigurd and Vidrik both were eyeing her speculatively, while Thedrik had dismounted and was casually cleaning rock-troll blood from Nagelring's blade.

"When you said you could do as well with magic, you meant it," Vidrik said at last.

Hermione awkwardly shrugged off the compliment. They'd killed just as many by sword and spear as she had with magic. It was, in this case, only a different kind of force.

But they didn't linger for long on the strangeness of her magic. As promised, the tunnels soon opened up and Odin's lights became unnecessary. Though there was no visible source, the tunnels were lit were a ruddy light, as if the rock itself was recalling long-ago sunlight. It gave everything and everyone a strange cast. Not quite red enough to be eerie, but disconcerting all the same.

"These tunnels are like blood vessels in the earth," Sigurd said, drawing alongside her and breaking her silent reverie. "If I remember correctly, we'll be approaching a larger room soon, where we'll establish our encampment before clearing out the rest of the capillaries near the surface of Asgard. No need to risk being trapped by enemies on both sides."

Hermione nodded and they continued on in companionable silence except for the creak of leather and wolf feet on stone.

His memory hadn't failed him. They exited abruptly in an enormous cavern, where the intrinsic light was a little brighter, giving her a glimpse of the rough, reddish stone that formed the walls. She wondered what had created the Realm Below. Not water, the stone too rough for that, but neither could it have been the result of mining. Unless they had some beast that like to slither through tunnels eating stone, it was Hermione's guess that it was a result of the violence of the meeting between primordial ice and fire if she was going to invest herself in the Asgardian version of events that had created the known Realms.

She liked caves, because there was often surprisingly beautiful and delicate stone formations to be seen and there was something quite magical without being inherently magical at all as the sight of the pools of water so still and clear that they reflected perfectly. This, this was ugly. It was a dead cave, the walls completely dry, no slowly growing stalagmites and stalactites to marvel at.

Odin indicated they were to dismount, the thralls working efficiently to erect a camp. She'd wondered what that would entail and if she should make use of her own tent instead. But it was a quick process. Two folding objects of what seemed to be wood, surmounted by a pair of stylized horse heads facing outward, were stuck folded into the ground a generous distance from each other. As Vargar stepped back, blue light chased along the grooves of the carving, the poles elongating until they stood well above Hermione head and then snapping outward to form an inverted V shape. Energy hummed as it cascaded between the two poles, solidifying until it almost looked like fabric.

It was the oddest mix of medieval design and science fiction technology she'd ever witnessed, Hermione acknowledged, but somehow it seemed to suit the Asgardian mingling of the two.

Packwolves were quickly unloaded and a small bowl unearthed from one of them, which soon became a blazing campfire with no apparent source of fuel. But Odin wasn't content to let her observe the process of setting up their camp. Instead he drew her off to one side, well away from the tents. He had Gungnir in hand, which made her uneasy.

"Your spear, it has a name?" he prompted.

"The Luin of Celtchar, sire."

He nodded. "Summon it. We'll begin with the spear, which offers several advantages to a person of inferior height, weight, and strength. You will lack all of these when matched against a rock-troll. Today was an easy battle, our opponents little better than dumb beasts and unarmed. But they are only the vanguard, sown on the field of battle to cause chaos and destruction as a distraction, disposable and irrelevant to the true strength of the trolls. They will make fine practice."

Dutifully, Hermione realized the spear. Compared to golden Gungnir, it was dark and brutal in appearance, but like all great weapons, it also had a kind of stark grace. Odin watched her intently with his single eye. "Mobility is the most important aspect of your magic battles, is it not?" he posited.

Hermione nodded. "Ability, power, and endurance are important as well," she said, "but, yes, mobility is a key element."

"Your stance, as it is, is more suited to unarmed combat or dagger-work," Odin informed her bluntly. "The spear is not a subtle weapon. It will give you the advantage of reach and leverage, but it is not magic. It is not flexible, it cannot compromise. That is the mindset behind the spear. Most named weapons of a certain age have gained a kind of rudimentary sentience of their own, especially those that possess magic. Can you tell me the desire of your weapon?"

Hermione looked down at the spear, contemplating its character from her own brief experiences and the documented history of the weapon. The way it had to be quickly quenched or devour even the wielder, though her gauntlets gave her the advantage of being somewhat inflammable fleshwise and all her robes had been warded against catching fire. But the spear hadn't acted out of respect of that fact. It simply desired battle with a hunger that brought on the seething heat, uncaring if it destroyed the one who carried it. Even without the aid of human hands, it was said that the spear carried the potential to scorch the world. But Hermione doubted that particular aspect of the legend and thought it little more than hyperbole. It wasn't wreathed in Fiendfyre, after all.

After several long moments of silence, Hermione realized she was likely overanalyzing the question, searching for a complex answer when the correct one was simple. "It wants to be used," she said.

"As you say," Odin acknowledged."Except for the rare, odd weapon, most artifacts such as these simply desire to fulfill their intended purpose. One day, you will be master of both it and yourself, but for now, if you can abandon ego, it will tell you how best to wield it."

Hermione tried very hard not to look skeptical or glance down at the Luin again. But it crept into her eyes, apparently, for Odin softened a little toward her, the edges of his lips turning upwards. "Of course, this will be accompanied by as much practical instruction as you can bear."

Several hours later, wiser and sorer than she'd ever been in her life, Hermione thought darkly that how much she could bear had no correlation with Odin's style of instruction. If it had been Odin in charge of Loki's education, she could well understand the ill-will he bore him, because while she tended to grant anyone associated with the title of 'teacher' in her mind an astounding degree of leniency, Odin was unforgiving, brutal, and infallible. It had been a little like Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Snape, except that she was left with stinging muscles and bruises alongside stinging pride.

She was aware it was unreasonable to expect to be good at everything, flying by broomstick a fine example of that, but even years of finding herself not perfectly suited to anything and everything had not yet manage to kill her expectation of, if not perfection, then a quick and thorough acquisition of a skill. Hermione had improved, certainly, but when her initial skills had been pronounced 'appalling,' she retreated into the relative privacy of her tent with gratitude. Unlike Harry, she preferred to sulk in isolation.

Alas, she found she wasn't alone. Vargar sat within on the floor, where a fur had been thrown, one leg part-way pulled up to his chest and his arm resting casually on it. She froze just inside the entry and he watched her unemotionally with those eerie yellow eyes. "You'll be staying here with me?" she asked, too tired for her voice to sound anything but snappish.

There was no change in his expression. "I was charged with your comfort and protection, sorceress."

Drawing on reserves now running dry, Hermione collected the fragments of her patience. "I see. Is there something else you would prefer to be called, besides Vargar?" she asked as she wandlessly and wordlessly warded the tent out of habit. If they were ambushed in the night, she would hear the rock-trolls approach, but they would meet her magical walls long before they could draw near her person.

"Vargar does well enough. It is all the name a thrall needs."

"But it makes it inconvenient, if there are more than one of you," Hermione said.

"Names are only a convenience in that case. Thralls know well enough whom they serve and who is being asked to perform a task. We are nameless, not fools. If you believe it necessary to differentiate me from the others, you may do so with whatever word you please. Call me as you would a dog. Bleiki will suit your purpose admirably."

If she was not etymologically mistaken, she would guess that the name he'd given her literally meant 'pale', in the same way that bleak had until the 1500s. It was not really a proper name at all, but just as he'd said, it would have made a fine thing to call a dog if it had a white pelt. Still, the individuality was more reassuring, even if the connotations were unpleasant.

"Bleiki, then." She tilted her head slightly to one side, studying 'her' thrall. "Does it not bother you?" she asked inquisitively.

"If you were aware of my crime, you would likely think that losing my name and my freedom was not all I deserved," he answered easily.

"And what do you think?"

A prickle of unease made the muscles in her back tense as he answered. "I have made peace with the fact that I am a brutal man. And I do not regret what I did, just as I do not resent that this is the coin in which I pay for my deeds." Without rising, he reach behind him for a bundle swathed in dark wool. He beckoned her closer and she approached hesitantly.

"What is it?" she asked. As she touched the fabric, ripples of energy fanned out from her fingers and the wool loosened. Pulling it aside, she caught sight of heavy, pale fur almost the same shade as the thrall's hair.

"My pelt," Bleiki said, the faintest air of humor surrounding him for the first time. "What did you think _ulfhendinn, _wolf-coat, meant? It can make me immune to weapons, give me inhuman strength and the quickness, grant me healing and stamina well beyond that of any other warrior."

Hermione's eyes widened as she took in the implications of the word and the Norse legends. "You're a werewolf," she breathed.

"Is that what your people call it?"

A/N: For the next several chapters, each will be released in a _Below _and _Above _version, the latter following the escapades of the rest of our heroes back in Asgard.


	34. Existence in a Double-Star System (A)

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Thirty-Three-

Existence in a Double-Star System

(_Above_)

Harry studiously ignored The Dragon's unease after parting with his hoard. He loved Hermione, truly, but if this was their home now, he didn't intend to be tethered to her by anything but choice. If he couldn't bear to be parted from her for three weeks, it could make the rest of their very long existence rather awkward. If The Dragon was keening mournfully at the very thought of parting, well, he manfully ignored The Dragon. It was pathetic for such an immense creature to be undone be such a small thing, after all.

_Harry _was glad for Hermione. Someone with Hermione's intellect and talent and a less strict morality or a lesser sense of service to the greater good would have taken Loki's path long ago. At Hogwarts, she'd lived in his shadow and that hadn't changed after graduation, Hermione content to be coaxed to joining him in the Hit Wizards rather than blazing a political trail through the lethargic and backwards-looking society they'd dwelt in. She'd always assured him that she wouldn't compromise if she didn't want to, but he'd known what a powerful influence their friendship wielded over her.

Now it was her turn for special attention to be paid to her and he was glad enough to give over. It wasn't as if he was being ignored, though he had convinced Thor to delay their own training in order to be present for Jane's first lesson on magic with Frigga.

And, if he wished her out of sight for the complex and shameful reason that he both resented her at the moment and because he didn't want to hurt her with cross words he'd later regret, well, that was the reality of being human.

They-Thor, Jane, Loki, and himself-were waiting in an immense antechamber of some kind with a vaulted ceiling that soared, he would guess, some five stories in the air. The roof was either of an energy barrier of some kind or glass. Sunlight poured down on them below, light spilling onto the leaves of two massive fruiting trees that softened the otherwise stark interior. Harry was becoming slightly less surprised at the introduction of a new room, hall, or courtyard every time they came. He'd been told this palace had some five hundred and forty doors.

"Most of Frigga's hall looks like this," Loki was saying to Jane, who'd been admiring the trees. "Fensalir is a place of peace, learning, and unexpected harvests."

Thor nodded. "There is a long hall, as one enters, bordered on either side by golden wheat. And as you walk past, if you are a welcome guest, butterflies of gold rise up out of it."

Jane's brows rose incredulously. "And if you're an unwelcome guest?"

"Then they're wasps," Loki replied with a faint smirk.

"Lovely," Jane commented, crossing her arms across her chest in a gesture of nervousness. "I think I'd rather be out hunting with Hermione. At least I've been hunting before. Magic is another matter."

"Somehow I doubt," Loki said dryly, "that the mortal pursuit of deer and like animals at all resembles what Hermione is doing now. But she is a woman, so Odin is unlikely to take her bilgesnipe hunting or anything too odious. Perhaps they are even now heading toward Asgard's rolling hills in pursuit of boar. I'm sure they will have bonded wonderfully by the time they return."

Harry snorted softly.

Before they had to entertain themselves much long, the doors at the far end of the room opened and Frigga stepped inside, followed by Fulla, who carried an iron bound chest in her arms without any evidence of strain. When they were within four feet of Harry and the others, Frigga motioned for her to sit it on the floor.

"It seems you've brought Jane an entire chest of pretty toys to play with," Loki commented. "It my presence really necessary?" he asked the room at large.

"You are the only one in the room capable of shapeshifting and who has learned Asgardian sorcery this millenia, dear," Frigga told him lightly. "I am certain you will be a marvelous help."

Skepticism briefly could have been an entry in a dictionary with Loki listed under one of the definitions, but he smoothed the expression from his face. "Certainly."

Frigga bent slightly to open the chest, which though bound with iron seemed to have no hinges and no lock. When her hand brushed it, the black iron began to shift in a way that reminded him of the Room of Requirement in reverse, the dark metal sinking into the wood.

Frigga pulled from it a lustrous hooded cloak that he didn't doubt would have the same texture of liquid silk that had characterized the Invisibility Cloak before it had become part of Hermione. "Shall I demonstrate or would you like to try?" Frigga offered kindly.

"What would I have to do with it?" Jane asked, eyeing it as if she suspected it might come alive in Frigga's hands. Luckily, they were Asgard, not in the Wizarding world.

Loki rolled his eyes."The cloak is perhaps the least complicated piece of clothing ever invented by mortal or æsir. Do you need instructions?"

Jane glared at him briefly, but Frigga gently deflected her attention. "You need only put it on. The rest is magic."

Not looking particularly convinced, Jane cautiously pulled the fabric around her shoulders and the hood up over her head. When nothing happened, some of the tenseness left her stance. "I think your cloak might be malfunctioning," she said.

"The cloak pin, dear," Frigga said.

"Oh." Jane glanced down at the golden pin and fumbled with the unfamiliar object before managing to clasp it. Then she shrieked in surprise and not a little fear as the cloak _did _come to life, the silk slithering over her limbs and the hood closing about her face, becoming more rigid and defined even as the cloak-wrapped body compacted and feathers broke through the fabric.

In mere seconds, the largest gyrfalcon he'd ever seen was standing dazedly on the floor. Her beak was grey, tipped with black on the end, and she was a beautiful snowy white with black barring and spotting on her wings, back, and tail. Her eyes were dark as the interior of a student's inkwell, all traces of Jane's former appearance erased. She stood perhaps waist-high, which meant that beak and those talons were large and powerful enough to present a threat to much larger prey that gyrfalcons in nature hunted.

Jane peered up at them anxiously, squawking awkwardly as she tried to form words with a body not suited for it. She fluttered her wings, sending herself off balance and tumbling to the floor. Before she could begin flopping about awkwardly, Harry, whose scales offered him some protection and whose long familiarity who owls made him soften toward her plight, scooped her from the floor.

He'd gently pinned her wings to her sides, occupying both his hands, so he looked toward Thor. "How do you feel about being a perch?" he asked.

Thor chuckled and took off his own cape, wrapping it tightly about his forearm and over the metallic bracer that would have made gripping difficult for Jane. Together, they coaxed the skittish woman to make use of her talons, looking on with fond amusement as she shifted uneasily.

"If you do not fight the falcon-cloak's magic," Thor reassured her, "you will find you already know how to fly. It is easy."

Loki scoffed. "Brother, you do not so much fly as jump."

"Then, if you are so qualified to offer an opinion, Loki, do so," Thor replied.

Loki pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a put upon sigh. He turned to his mother. "You are certain I cannot simply wait in my cell until it is time to leave?"

"Loki," Frigga scolded softly.

The trickster god rolled his eyes. "Very well," he drawled. "Will it soothe your sensibilities if I keep her company?" Without waiting for approval or disapproval, he shifted shape, becoming another recognizable breed of falcon-a peregrine falcon with a cruel golden beak that was tipped in black, his plumage black with white barring on his belly. More normally sized, he flexed his wings once, twice, and then he took to the air, weaving deftly in and among the branches of the trees in a display of flight skills that Harry doubted did anything to reassure Jane. And when he shot toward the roof and then plummeted into a steep dive, landing so hard on Thor's shoulder that the golden-haired man's shoulder dipped and Thor grimaced, Jane was watching him with a look of wide-eyed trepidation so clear he could make it out on a falcon's expression.

She shook her head violently, shifting uneasily and digging talons tighter in the fabric.

Harry unfolded his own wings from his flesh, stretching the leathery appendages and gauging the space. His wingspan would make flight here difficult, but Loki was apparently either appalling at being encouraging or was still in a snit about being excluded from his father's outing with Hermione. Harry would stake his entire fortune on the latter. Loki was of the Fred and George school of encouragement, which meant that as long as someone else was to take the blame they could convince a rock to shift itself without the use of magic.

He addressed Jane. "In this room, you won't have to worry about air currents or falling out of the sky. Thor or I can catch you. I can't fly with you like Loki, because the draft from my wings will make it that much harder for you."

"You have nothing to fear," Thor promised. Jane twisted her head to meet his gaze, earnest and even. It apparently reassured her, for she slowly extended her wings. "You cannot commit half-heartedly to flight," Thor warned, "else you will fall. Just trust your instinct."

Nodding, Jane launched herself into the air in a flurry of beating wings. Thor and Harry both tensed, prepared to intervene, but though her flight was clumsy, she kept herself aloft. Loki pitched himself back into the air as well, this time his flight slow enough that, with the help of the instincts embedded in the cloak, Jane could ape his movements.

Her nimbleness and swiftness increased as the morning drew on, until Thor suggested they make use of their time to begin their own training while Frigga was there to watch over Jane. Harry cocked a brow and sighed. "How do you suggest we begin?" he asked.

Thor held both his hands out in front of him at shoulder level. "Lock hands with me," he said, "try to force me back. I would gauge your strength and not destroy the room by doing so. Mother's scolding is a terrible thing."

Both brows soared toward his hairline and Harry waged an internal battle. He had trained himself for years to react with no more than human strength, reveal no more than human senses. Just as Hermione had learned to function without being able to sense small permeations of heat or chill or the thousands of textures the sensitive pads of the fingers encountered in the in one's daily existence. Should he display just enough strength? Or was it time to reveal that this between-form was truly a dragon encased in human flesh? His strength, his speed, his sheer power?

"Surely you are not afraid," Thor goaded him. "It is no shame to be weaker than Thor, God of Thunder."

If he was about fifteen, it would have been a very good taunt. As it was, Harry rolled his eyes before locking hands with Thor. Thor grinned at him, giving the illusion of friendliness, but his fingers pressed into the backs of Harry's hands with enough pressure to have broken bones in a human. Widening his stance, Harry bared his teeth as Thor as the æsir strove to push him back. Beneath his heels, Harry heard the first groans of the floor as it protested its misuse. Setting his feet, Harry returned the force in equal measure, attempting to make Thor step back.

Feeling the first twinge of competitive excitement as Thor simply grinned more widely, Harry redoubled his efforts only to find them equaled. "Is that all?" Thor asked.

"Didn't want to embarrass you in front of your girlfriend," Harry retorted, using his full strength at last. Thor's grip and arms maintained their position, his knees locked, but the floor gave, cracking and buckling.

"Boys!" Frigga scolded and Harry flinched, disentangling his hands from Thor's so quickly that the blond almost lurched forward.

"Um, sorry..." he began, but Frigga waved away his apology, turning on Thor.

"How many times have you been told to take your roughhousing outside?" she asked sternly. There was absolutely no physical resemblance at all between the stately queen of Asgard and the stout matriarch of the Weasley family, but it appeared that mothers the universe over had perfected that guilt-inducing tone.

"I'm sorry mother," Thor murmured. Frigga fixed him with a stern glare. Jane, who'd managed to learn how to land without doing damage to herself, settled worriedly on a nearby branch. Loki settled on a perch as well, but it was smugness that he stunk of.

Frigga sighed at last, relenting. "Sorry does not repair the floors," Frigga replied. "Take more care in the future, Thor."

"It wasn't Thor's fault," Harry interjected staunchly. "I escalated it. This was my fault, ma'am."

"Nonsense," Frigga told him warmly. "Thor should know better. As should you, but he is your host. It was his part to cease when you approached doing damage to the palace. But no matter, the floors _can _be fixed. But I would suggest that you remove yourselves outside to continue. Jane has done well enough in flight for today, but there are a few other trinkets that I would offer her to aid her in your journey."

'Scurry' was not an adjective that Harry would have associated with Thor, but it almost described the way he retreated from the room, Harry following after. Eventually Thor led them to an outer courtyard, where he proceeded to demonstrate that while he had an incredible mastery over his own weapon and body, his teaching skills left something to be desired. He consistently made assumptions about what sort of training Harry had received. It was somewhat flattering, that he equated his Hit Wizard skills with an Asgardian warrior's, but it also made things unnecessarily difficult.

His between-state was human enough to sweat and his skin was slick with it as evening cast its cloak over the sky, he and Thor both stripped to the waist. They were using wooden practice weapons and even though Thor looked very human, Harry had unequivocally decided that he was very much not, because he had broken several blades on that deceptively humanoid physique without leaving more than a quickly disappearing welt. Thor had just returned the favor, his own weapon splintering over Harry's ribs, when he chuckled. "We have missed the midday meal and shall find ourselves late to the evening feast if we do not soon take our leave. Enough, Harry Potter. You have put forth a grand struggle."

"I don't much like to give thanks for a beating," Harry said dryly, " but thanks anyway."

Thor chuckled and clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder before departing. Harry caught a glimpse of gold from his peripheral vision. Not unusual, given the profusion of the metal and the color, but there was something odd that caught his attention. Something off. He turned his head slightly to focus better on the figure, half in shadow along the wall.

She-for it was a she-was the single most attractive woman he'd ever caught sight of, with the proportions of a statue born from the hands of a man who'd a mind to worship it, tumbling curls that shone like burnished metal and skin of only a slightly lighter tint. She was, in a single phrase, a woman perfectly suited to committing an idolatry of the eyes and, from the way she unfurled sinuously from the wall, she was perhaps suited to other kinds of things that mothers might disapprove of.

She greeted Thor, her voice low, sultry. Inviting.

"Seen something you like?" Loki asked, suddenly at his shoulder. "Although she looks rather taken with Thor. He being a prince, even a presently disinherited one, he has the advantage."

Harry half-turned to look at Loki in the dying light. "I was married, you know."

"Was?" Loki asked, seizing on the word. "No longer, then. So that shouldn't be an issue. And do you really mean to suggest you've not even looked at a woman carnally since you came to Midgard? I know mortal women really can't compare, but that's somewhat excessive. You weren't gawking with admiration at Thor, so it can't be that you prefer men. But perhaps an experiment?"

His image shuddered and it was suddenly a voluptuous dark-haired woman who stood before him, black hair spilling over armor designed more suggestively than protectively. A scent reached him-something herbal, sweet and sharp. Anise, mint, hyssop-innumerable combinations and possibilities were born and dismissed. It was almost a witch's scent. Many household potions used the gentler herbs and they were often used to help scent linens and laundry in pureblood's houses. In the deceptive half-light, he could erase the details of Loki's features, though there was a similarity there as well, but he could take in the scent, the mad light of eyes that could turn cruel in an instant, that tumble of dark hair.

He could see the shadow of Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Show that form to Hermione," Harry said in a low, dangerous voice, "and your entrails will become your extrails."

Collecting his discarded clothing and armor, he stalked inside, the subtle wrongness he'd sensed about the woman forgotten. Intent on his destination, he nearly trampled a man. Shoulder length hair, thick and somewhat disordered, with unfocused eyes the color of the sea. "Ah, the Paladin," the man said. "I suppose the Kingmaker cannot be far. I'd hope to speak to her this evening."

Startled from his focus, Harry was slow to answer. "Do I know you? And what did you call me?"

The man blinked, startled in his own turn. "Yes. We've known each other for years. And I called you the Paladin-that's what they call you when you descend to Midgard and muck about with their heroes, isn't it? Paladin and Kingmaker, Dragon and Kingbreaker, the endless circle." His eyes seemed to clear a little. "But it seems that's not how I know you yet. Apologies. I'm apparently suffering from a bout of temporal disorientation. I'm Njord, one of the Vanir. I would tell you more, but I recall how strongly you dislike prophecy. But I can tell you that I am your ally in the future." He waved as he proceeded down the hall. "Perhaps we'll meet each other at tonight's feast!"

Harry was left to stare, ruminating on the odd encounter. _At least_, he thought with a measure of resignation to fate, _it seems like we survive our jaunt to Helheim. But at least he got one thing right. I despise prophecy. _


	35. Penumbra

To Ride Upon Svadilfari

-Chapter Thirty-Four-

Penumbra

(_Below_)

Despite the fact they were journeying into the cavernous belly of the Realm, there was a convivial air about their party. This was no grim, sober hunt like the one for Horcruxes. By the firelight, mead and stories both flowed freely as even Thidrek seemed to warm to her. Hermione found herself the object of copious amounts of advice, criticism, and the occasional wager, but there was a famine state on outright praise.

Still, just as with everything she'd ever attempted with the glaring exceptions of Divination, which she still felt couldn't be taught and learned like more mundane subjects, and flight by broomstick, she had a sharp learning curve. Her wrists and elbows ached from the unfamiliar weight of her weapons and the force required to plunge even magically keen weapons into rock-troll flesh, but she persevered in silence. Whinging wouldn't win her any respect from her comrades and it would buy her even less sympathy.

After nearly a week in the tunnels, as their surroundings grew noticeably cooler, Hermione felt that she had become accustomed to the routine. There were still unpleasant surprises-being entrusted with Bleiki's pelt, which was something like being given the given the leash to a half-rapid, very large wolf, the later revelation that the thrall was a gift rather than simply a loan for the journey, and the uncomfortable realization that weapons practice with half-naked warriors who looked like Sigurd proved her quite fallibly female. The last time he'd chided her for being distracted, she'd come very close to snapping that he should he should at least put his shirt on if he wanted her to focus on weapons practice and not on a physique developed by hundreds of years of swordplay. Hermione thought of herself as a primarily cerebral creature, so occasional reminders of her own physicality were like a stinging slap to the face, especially given how recently she'd resigned herself and become a widow in truth.

Still, she couldn't regret this experience. Her every sense felt sharper, her sense of existence more honed by the fact that at any moment a troll could emerge from the rock and force her to match, not simply wits and magic, but strength and battle cunning as anything less than the slicing hex was liable to be shrugged off by the durable creatures. Not that she preferred it-her first love would always be the library and matching her mind against a puzzle. But the broadening of her experience made it dearer to her-here in the tunnels, she could truly miss the smell of old books, the warmth of a cup of tea set carefully to one side, the rhythmic scratch of her quill against parchment. Pens were convenient, certainly, though one could purchase Never-Dry Quills, but there was something soothing about using a quill, the remnant of a slower and more gracious age.

Not even the rising with the dawn was intolerable, though she missed Harry's grumbling at the early hour. It was impossible without a spell to gauge the rising and setting of the sun in the Realms above in the Realm Beneath, except for an awe-inspiring display that occurred faithfully at dawn and dust of Asgard. Slipping to the front of her tent, stepping carefully over Bleiki's form on the furs in front of her cot, Hermione shifted the energy of the tent so that she could peer out. It was not unlike using her hand to redirect the flow of a waterfall, the energy sparking like electricity as it glided over her skin.

Odin stood quietly by the dying embers of their fire, Huginn and Muninn perched on the sides of his hands. Like a statue, he seemed not to even breath, but in sudden flurry of talons and beaks and feathers the color of midwinter nights, Huginn and Muninn became not two ravens but thousands, shadowy birds that winged their way with ease through stone and the ice above, alighting in Nine Realms to act as Odin's eyes and ears. At dusk, all the shadow ravens returned bearing memories of the Realms above, so that while Odin rested-she wasn't quite certain he actually slept except in Odinsleep, for she had glimpsed him patrolling their camp at all hours yet never seemed to tire during the day either-his mind could wander through the Nine Realms of the day just past, so that there was little that escaped Odin's eye. Not even the night could conceal one from him, though he'd been silent on the method used once dark fell and his unkindness of ravens returned.

Retreating back in her tent, she ignored the way the light glinted inhumanly in Bleiki's eyes. The werewolves of her world had been thin, wasted beasts beset by a fearful curse, strong only when they were at their least human, giving over to their primal side, as Greyback had done, but only the word remained the same between the two cultures. Werewolves, _ulfhendinn-_though apparently the term could also signify one who could become partially bear-were the product not of a viral curse but of training, magic, and will. It was they who had inspired ancient legends of berserkers whose skin couldn't be pierced with steel and who were invincible on the battlefield, more beast than man. Though she hadn't seen Bleiki's transformation, she was unable to mentally reconcile the gaunt, mangy creature Remus Lupin had become with the well-muscled warrior.

She was curious as to what crime Bleiki had committed, but hadn't asked. Either his crime would be something that she didn't feel justified his punishment or his crime really had been so terrible that speaking civilly to him would become difficult. Hermione believed in second chances, sometimes even third chances, but she didn't believe that most people ever really lost what had caused them to go astray in the first place. They could redirect their energies, compromise with society, train themselves to do without, but the impulse never left them.

Lucius Malfoy had been a 'reformed' philanthropist when she and Harry had come to this world, but his nature and prejudices hadn't disappeared. He'd simply tempered them. He'd been her ally at times, her enemy at others-she'd made use of his desire to be re-accepted into society to use his lingering status and connections to give her reforms for Beings force they would have lacked, and he'd capitalized on her blood and her fame to show himself accepting chagrined by his past actions. They found each other mutually beneficial, their personalities not unsimilar, which was likely why they'd collaborated so well and despised each other so much on a personal level.

Whatever crime Bleiki had committed was in the past and so long as it remained so, she couldn't judge him for it and their relationship, odd as it was, could continue to be pleasant from her end and indifferent from his. It wasn't so much a passive acceptance, she thought as he rose, so much as an animal-like disdain for the trappings and vanities of society. Pride, yes, she was sure he possessed it, but it was indifferent to the subtleties that should make being a thrall more shameful than being a berserker. He'd told her, quite blandly, that both served a greater man and his purposes rather than any path freely chosen by warrior or servant.

He was odd, that was certain, but she was equally certain, however foolish it might seem, that she could trust Bleiki absolutely as she hadn't trusted anyone since she'd come to this world. A gift he might have been, an enticement from Odin to successfully retrieve Balder, as she didn't doubt that was the gift he expected in return, but he gave her the same impression that Crookshanks had given her so long ago. In that instant of meeting, he'd judged her worth and decided that she would be his person, regardless of her feelings. Bleiki seemed to have done much the same, in a more stalwart, doglike way than Crookshanks, whose interpretation of love and affection had been deigning to allow her to pet him when it pleased him.

"Are you risen for the morning?" Bleiki grumbled without rising from his own bed. His responsibilities didn't extend to her person, only her possessions, her mount and a portion of their shared food supplies, so until it came time to shift camp, he had limited freedom to do as he would.

"Probably," Hermione answered softly. Once her sleep was interrupted in the Realm Below, she more or less resigned herself to being awake. There was no beguiling mattress or warm arms to lull her quickening mind back into the appropriate state for sleep, so once she was awake, that was it.

Dressing quickly, renewing the warming charms on her clothing-there was no risk of half-naked weapons practice now that they were so deep in the Realm Beneath-Hermione slipped from the tent. "Good morning," she murmured to Odin.

"Good morning," he returned solemnly. The look in his single eyes was serious, evaluating. Hermione bore with it, meeting his stare evenly. "Today you will venture forth on your own." His hand indicated a tunnel entrance that was little more than a shadow on the wall, a large wall of stone curving partially around the opening. She'd seen it when they'd arrived, noted that Freki would barely be able to slip between the rocks. It widened out once inside, but it was a tunnel rather than a large, cavernous chamber of the type that was becoming more common the further they ventured. This one still held the still smoldering remains of the more rudimentary camp of the rock-trolls they ridden down the last evening.

It was the first evidence she'd seen of them having a civilization of any kind of sophistication, though she'd been aware they had their own unintelligible language. To her, at least, though Odin seemed to be unhindered by it.

"Is that...wise?" Hermione asked hesitantly.

"I had the ravens scout ahead. You will be overwhelmed by the rock-trolls to be found only if you are a fool. And I do not believe you to be a fool. Will you prove me wrong?"

"Of course not, sire," Hermione replied, setting her face in determined lines and squelching her apprehension. While she might lack confidence in her spear and her blade when matched against intelligent enemies with twentyfold her strength, she had thus far avoided promises to avoid using her magic. She thought discarding a weapon so valuable simply to prove she could was singularly foolish in this environment and it wasn't something she would be goaded into no matter the provocation.

Mulling over the kind of challenge that awaited her, Hermione tentatively inquired, "Why did you not choose Harry to accompany you? This would seem to be the very definition of a male bonding activity."

Odin lips lifted upward into a faint smile. "He does not care for hunting, at least not with his human mind. And he has a certain distrust for older men who know too much, who control information in order to control the field of battle. Or is it me personally that he dislikes?"

Hermione blinked, stunned as always by Odin's insight, often offered when least expected. "How did-why would you think such a thing?" She disliked her fumbling question, but she was only so pointed and fierce when she considered someone her enemy and allowed herself to dissemble their personality and actions as if inspecting for flaws she could exploit. Odin was many things, but not her enemy. Never her enemy, if she could manage it. Though not a god in truth, he was the most godlike being she had ever encountered and the differences between god and godlike would be slight enough if he sought her death.

"His expression goes very flat when I explain things, as if he distrusts that I am telling him everything. No, your companion has no desire for my approval. He'll do better with a softer touch. He looks wistful when he looks to Frigga and was singularly quick to forgive her deception. He lacked a mother, did he not?"

Hermione nodded slowly.

"Frigga thought that it might be so. If you are not careful, your companion will find himself a proper fosterling in her hall. She has a great love for children that has allowed her to open her heart to sons not her own. She tells me that there is a deep vulnerability, hidden by power and scales, to your friend. A gaping wound that can only be shielded by the family he so strongly desires. Or that is what she hints, in that irritating way of hers, silent as always as to the futures she perceives."

Hermione contemplated that for a moment. There was cold assessment there-authoritative approval could sway Hermione, while the care of a mother-figure would influence Harry-but that they would bother to tailor their approach rather than attempt to compel with force, bride, or otherwise coerce them spoke only to the fact that this was a courtship of sorts. And while much had been expected and demanded of Hermione before, this was the first time that anyone had bothered to cultivate a relationship like this one with her to do so. Odin was plying her with the only things that had the power to draw her: preference and prestige above others, knowledge of new and hidden things, the acknowledgment of her potential and strength by someone in a position to know what such things were.

So she wasn't angry. Flattered, cautious, but she wasn't being pressed into this. It was her choice, made freely, the path that she'd chosen in this new reality. She could have lived out her life on Midgard working with Tony Stark, could do so yet when the quest was finished, but this gave her purpose and a place. And, perhaps, after being friends with Harry for so long, she had been infected with his 'saving people thing.' Loki wasn't 'good' but her definition of the term, but he was somehow heartbreaking. He would be hurt, insulted, furious when it was revealed to him or he guessed that this wasn't simply a jaunt to Helheim to retrieve a brother-it was a journey that would see that neither he nor Thor would never sit on the throne of Asgard. But, sometimes, when a wound had begun to putrefy, the one recourse to healing was to cut away what poisoned the sound flesh. Loki's ambition was a beast with a bottomless pit of a stomach-he would never be happy or satisfied by what he thought he desired. Someone would have to grind that ambition to dust before he could be satisfied by what he had-a life as a prince of Asgard, a family that was alive, well, and willing to receive him with open arms, and time enough to learn endless things.

But, as she prepared to set out, she swept all the extraneous thoughts from her mind. No need to find herself maimed simply because she was considering scenarios to make Loki a better person. Bleiki helped her saddle Freki, passing her supplies for the day.

The others were there to see her off-she felt not unlike a child being sent to Hogwarts for the first time.

Thidrek addressed her with solemnity. "'Cattle die. Kinsmen die. All men are mortal. Words of praise will never perish, nor a noble name.' I do not know that you have ever read the _Havamal_, but these words are no lie. Even the æsir bend knee before old age, but the stories will endure even beyond Ragnarok. Today you will be alone, with no one to tell tales of what occurs in that tunnel, but recall that cowardice will always out itself eventually. Fight with courage when no one sees and it will be apparent on the field of battle where there are many witnesses."

Hermione didn't make a verbal response, but she nodded with what she hoped was equal gravity as she took hold of Freki's reins.

Vidrik snorted. "Despite speaking truth, don't let him spoil the fun of your hunt. There are three things that make life worthwhile: battle, feasting, and something I'm not going to spell out for you because you'll give me that prissy look down your nose."

"'Fun' is not an adjective I'd ever associate with battle," Hermione said dryly, "but I'll accept the sentiment."

Sigurd's laughing eyes caught hers. "Be safe," he said simply. "And return triumphant."

Her own lips twitched upward faintly and Hermione nodded, tugging gently on the reins to indicate to Freki they were leaving. As she slipped into the crevice, the leather of the saddle whispering softly as it brushed by solid rock, Hermione firmed her resolve.

The camp they'd destroyed hadn't been a settlement. It had obviously been a military encampment, with more weapons and stores than had been needed for the small contingent that had been dwelling there. Odin had grimly pronounced that the rock-trolls were beginning to establish waystations in order to facilitate a larger scale attack on Asgard. Regardless of whether the warfare was Muggle, Asgardian, or magical, two elements remained vital: competent leadership and an unbroken supply line.

The question of who now led the rock-trolls remained unanswered, but it was certain that someone was coordinating the encroaching force. As they'd delved more deeply into the Realm Beneath, their enemies had grown more disciplined and intelligent, little resembling the bruisers that had lurked just inside the caves except in strength and general appearance.

Mounting Freki once the tunnel grew wide enough, she realized the Luin, the weight not as comforting as that of her wand, but familiar all the same. Hermione watched Freki's ears as an indication of an enemy's presence, the wolf's keener senses serving her well. They made good time for a while, flushing several of the rock-trolls from where they'd concealed themselves upon hearing her approach. The Luin was soon slick with their blood, which steamed as it touched the ice-bound head of the spear. It was apparently an adaptation to their frigid natural environment, but she'd found out quickly enough when it splattered on her unprotected face that rock-troll blood was hot enough to scald.

They'd been seeking out their prey for several hours along the branching network of tunnels and Hermione was considering lunch when Freki halted before a fissure in the rock. His hackles bristling, Freki's rumbling growl was a clear indication that someone lurked inside. Worrying her lip and gauging the space within as best she could, for the fissure twisted back abruptly, concealing anything that might lay beyond, Hermione decided that it was most certainly a trap.

Trusting Freki to tear to ribbons anything that might slither from the other side while she had her eyes closed, Hermione made use of the Mirror. Despite a narrow entry that twisted like an snake, it did open into a chamber that would be wide enough to use the Luin in. But the chamber was empty. Frowning, Hermione scoured it more thoroughly, seeking footprints, anything that might indicate why Freki was so ferociously insistent that something was inside. But there was nothing.

Eyes opening, Hermione frowned more deeply. She didn't know that magic had a scent, nor had there been evidence that the rock-trolls were capable of using sorceries of any kind except the natural cloaking that helped them blend into the stone.

But if she dismissed the empty room and continued on and it turned out to be not so empty after all, she would have to face either being driven more deeply into the Realm and the heart of the rock-troll's power or an enemy capable of concealing itself from a powerful magical artifact.

Dismounting, Hermione allowed the Luin to dissipate. Despite the barrier of rock between her and the chamber, she worked her way through the standard spells that ought to have revealed a presence beyond, but only insects triggered the spell as she pushed it to its limit. Glancing at Freki, who had fallen silent, she saw his lips were pulled back from black gums from which jutted wicked teeth. "You're certain something is there?" she murmured.

Freki chuffed impatiently, as if to reply 'of course.'

Slipping forward, Hermione turned sideways so that her wand hand led her body through the narrow, twisting path. _This is a very bad idea, _her head murmured, but there was no help for it.

After a long, tense minute, she emerged into the chamber, finding it as empty as the Mirror had claimed.

Treading very carefully, lest she trigger some unseen trap, Hermione crossed the room. When nothing shifted or changed, the sandy red earth beneath her feet remaining benign and the walls not becoming a closing vice, she relaxed slightly. But before she could turn, something impacted hard against the back of her head, smashing her forward into the wall with enough force there was a flare of pain as her nose gave, rock abrading her forehead as she slid downward before she could catch herself.

Despite being half-blind, her balance near nonexistent, she threw herself to once side as something impacted the wall where she'd been hard enough that tiny flecks of rock stung her face, almost unnoticeable when compared to the burn of her broken nose.

Hissing a spell to correct it beneath her breathe, Hermione whirled to face her attacker only to find an empty room. Putting her back to the wall, she mentally snapped _Bombarda_!

Earth rose in a concussive wave from the force of the explosive spell, outlining a sphere of shielding.

"Not so pleasant, to be confronted by an invisible attacker, is it?" The voice was eerily familiar, wholly sinister.

Blinking away the blood that would have obscured her vision, Hermione gasped as her enemy revealed himself. And then she leaned slightly forward, fingers convulsing again the wall with such strength that she tore gouges in the stone, her expression no less fierce than Freki's. "You!" she accused, her voice little more than a hiss.

"Me," Smelt confirmed. "Hello, mudblood."

A/N: The HermioneBelow/HarryAbove POV switches are almost genre switches.


End file.
